


stay if I ever could

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Canonical Character Death, F/F, First Love, Headcanon, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 11:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11850645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: “It was years ago. The two were inseparable. There was no food, but there was love. Those brief days on the street with her childhood friend - the happiest times she's known”- The HeartBillie and Deirdre during their time together on the streets of Dunwall.





	1. but I can't stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre leave home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to my attempt to assemble all of my Billie/Deirdre headcanons into a chorent story. Wish me luck!

**Dunwall, Rust District**  
**24 th Month of Hearths, 1826**  
**Billie**

Her mother is yelling at her again.

Billie cowers underneath the coffee table, trying her very best to keep quiet while Mother rants about the Empress and the taxes and the ungrateful little shit she has for a daughter, fervently hoping she won’t be found this time.

Of course, she is. Mother always finds her once she remembers she has a daughter, always drags her from wherever she’s chosen to hide. Always punches her there where the bruises won’t show and screeches at her that Billie is the reason her life has gone so downhill.

“If it wasn’t for you, your father would still be around” is the most common allegation flung her way, but “I wouldn’t have to hit you if you’d just fucking listen to me, you little brat” and “every time I drink I hope I’ll forget I ever had you, but it never works” are also engraved into young Billie Foster’s brain.

There were times when she almost believed it herself, when she was little. The only thing that kept her sane were the sparse visits of her aunt Meagan, who always took the time to comfort her niece and often brought her some candy or a toy to play with. Billie hid those under the loose floorboard in her bedroom. Mother never found them, never thought to look for anything that might bring her daughter happiness because she was so certain she’d already taken everything away.

But aunt Meagan never called the Watch on her sister, or took Billie with her, even though she could clearly see what was happening. Aunt Meagan was kind, but she was not brave.

Now, aunt Meagan is gone, and her mother drinks all the more for it. Yesterday, her vision began to fade. Today, it’s gone entirely.

Of course, that’s Billie’s fault.

“At least I’ll never have to look at you again!” Mother bellows, furious, but her hand misses its mark and she stumbles.

Billie seizes the opportunity without thinking.

She kicks her mother’s legs out from under her, and the woman screams and curses her, but the adrenaline pounds in her ears and drowns out everything else, even her mother’s Voidawful voice. She’s calm. She’s controlled. She’s _in_ control.

“Shut up.”

Mother stops short, her wide, sightless eyes staring at a spot on the wall some inches from Billie’s face. “What did you just say to me?”

Part of her is terrified, wants to apologize profusely and beg for forgiveness. But another part, a larger part, is _done_. “I said: Shut. Up.”

“Now you listen – ”

Billie smacks her mother straight across the face. “No, _you_ listen,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “I have put up with you and your shit for years. I’ve let you yell at me, beat me, degrade me, make me feel guilty for simply existing, for being just another mouth to feed. I’ve had _enough_.”

Her mother is actually quiet for once, eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a thin line. Billie knows the expression well; it’s the exact same face Mother pulls when Billie pisses her off in public, or when they have company. It’s a look that promises pain, a calm before the storm, if you will.

But there won’t be a storm this time. There won’t be a storm ever again. “I’m leaving.”

She expects more shouting, maybe another attempt to hit her. But her mother _laughs_ at her. “Leaving? Ha! And where will you go, you useless little shit, huh? You think there’s anyone out there who wants to take in a brat like you?”

“I don’t care,” Billie says, and she truly doesn’t. “Anywhere is better than here.”

And she backs away, blocking out her mother’s taunts and insults, retreating to her little bedroom to pack before she can lose her courage and change her mind.

Some clothes, an extra pair of shoes, the few cans of food she stowed away for the days her mother decided she wasn’t worth feeding, that little whale-shaped wooden toy Aunt Meagan gave her when she turned eight. And, after some consideration, the small but sharp knife she always kept hidden under her pillow.

Mother is still sitting in the same spot when Billie returns, staring at the wall and muttering curses at her blindness, at whiskey, at the Empress, and, of course, at her daughter. She turns her head when she hears Billie’s footsteps, spitting out another insult, but Billie pays her no mind, eyes firmly set on the front door. She’s getting out of here if it’s the last thing she does.

Despite her mother’s shrill voice screeching at her, despite the rain that’s coming down in buckets outside, despite the uncertainty that comes with leaving behind the only home she’s ever known, Billie steps through the door without hesitation.

Billie Foster is barely thirteen when she leaves home forever.

* * *

 **Dunwall, Draper’s Ward**  
**6 th – 13th Month of Songs, 1826**  
**Deirdre**

The house is so quiet now.

Deirdre misses the sound of her mother playing the old piano, the sound of her brother and his friends yelling in the yard, the sound of her father and one of his many clients loudly talking business over drinks. The only sounds she hears now are the ticking of the tall grandfather clock and her own shallow breathing.

It isn’t enough.

She tries to make them come back. She plays the piano, but she can’t read the notes and the high-pitched noises she produces make the neighbours angry, so she stops. She exercises in the backyard, shouting encouragements at herself as she runs and climbs and does push-ups, but the wound on her leg opens again and sets her recovery back by a month, so she stops. She meets with her father’s old clients, showing them her designs for their new homes, but her ideas are too lavish and her calculations are off more often than not, so they stop.

She goes to her room and draws a picture, humming the song her mother wrote herself not long after she was born, the song that was made especially for her. She picks up a book and reads aloud, even though she doesn’t need to, because her little brother, who hasn’t learned how to read – who’ll never learn how to read, now – often sat out on the windowsill to listen to her. She records an audiograph, talking of little more exciting than her day-to-day activities, because her father gave her the expensive machine for her birthday some years ago, told her that her every thought was worth immortalising.

But they come and pound on the door, shouting unintelligible threats, drowning out every other sound from the house, so she stops.

They leave behind a paper which states, using a lot more fancy words than necessary, that the house – _her_ house, her _family’s_ house – is being repossessed by the city, unless Deirdre can pay them the overdue mortgage by the end of the week.

The number on the paper is gigantic, containing three more zeros than she’s ever seen in her life, and at least five more zeros than she could possibly afford. It’s also much, much more than the money she should owe only six weeks after the accident – she’s seen her father pay the bills, she knows how much he paid the city for their home every month.

Was her father in debt, she wonders? There had been less clients the past few months, and she found her parents arguing in hushed whispers a fair number of times, too. She recalls Father’s face on the last day she saw him, tense and full of worry, though he put on his brightest smile just for her. Was he concerned about their finances even then? Was that the reason he missed the oncoming carriage on the tracks?

 _No_ , she thinks furiously, shaking her head as if to deny the tears that threaten to spill from her eyes. Her father was a good person. Even if he raked up this much debt, that’s not what she wants to remember him for. It doesn’t matter anyway. Deirdre can’t possibly find this amount of money in a year’s time, let alone a week’s. She’ll be evicted just a fortnight before the Fugue Feast, and she’ll probably be dead before it ends.

That’s alright, though. At least she’ll get to see her family again.

So she makes the most of her last week. Plays the piano, despite her neighbour’s protests. Opens the windows and reads her book aloud, even if there’s no one to hear her. Records a last audiograph, though it will never be listened to.

She also packs a small knapsack with a heavy heart, knowing that everything that she can’t fit into it she will never see again. Perhaps she takes too little food, too few clothes, but she cannot leave behind her mother’s old tuning fork, or the last audiograph with her father’s voice on it, or the book her little brother loved to hear her read the most.

When she sees them coming, fourteen-year-old Deirdre Ailtire unlocks the front door for them, then slips out the back unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons in this chapter:
> 
> 1) Billie's real last name is Foster and a family member or friend of the family named Meagan was nice to her when she was young, so she combined those to create her alias.  
> 2) Unlike Billie, Deirdre did not leave home voluntarily.  
> 3) Deirdre came from a middle-class family, her father was an architect, and she had a younger brother.
> 
> I have absolutely no update schedule for this as I am currently writing my dissertation ~~and it's a disaster~~ , which means I have preciously little time to write fanfiction or do anything other than write my dissertation, really. So updates are on an asap basis.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


	2. stay up late so you're sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre adapt to life on the streets.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**18 th Month of Clans, 1826**  
**Billie**

Life on the streets is _wonderful_.

Sure, finding shelter for the night is a pain, scrounging up enough food to eat is a struggle every day, and people tend to look at her like she’s less than the wolfhound poop underneath their shoes – but she’s _free_ , and that means _everything_.

Billie whistles a merry tune as she saunters over John Clavering, scanning the busy street for a potential victim. It isn’t long before she spies a frantic-looking man in a white coat pushing his way through the crowd, his eyes focused on the open book in his hands rather than the people he’s bumping into. Perfect.

She shoves her hands into her pockets and subtly moves into his path. Inattentive to his surroundings as he is, the poor sod runs headlong into her, the book falling from his grasp onto the muddy ground.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” she says sweetly, immediately ducking down to pick up his book – and the sizeable coin pouch hanging from his belt. “Here you go.”

“Quite alright, quite alright,” the man – Galvani, she reads off the nametag attached to his coat – mumbles absentmindedly as he takes his book back from her. “Run along.”

Billie doesn’t need to be told twice. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

She quickly weaves through the people on the main street and ducks into one of the Boulevard’s many alleyways, the pouch of coin tight in her grasp. It must be the fattest one she’s snagged so far, and she can barely wait to count her haul, but she knows that to do so in the middle of the street would be incredibly stupid. So she waits until she’s safely tucked in her little corner, a small dwelling built out of cardboard and a thin, misshapen sheet of metal hidden away from prying eyes behind a dumpster in a dead-end alley. It doesn’t do shit against the cold, she has to find new cardboard whenever it rains, and she often has to abandon it to find proper shelter for the night lest she freeze to death. But it’s the closest thing to a home she has, and it’s the one place in the city where she feels comfortable enough to count the money she stole.

It totals to a whopping thirty-seven coins, much more than she could have dared hope for. If she rations it, she’ll be able to keep herself fed for at least two weeks. More, if she can cut a good deal with Griff for some of his jellied eels. Hardly anyone ever buys those from him, or so he’s complained to her, but Billie isn’t exactly in a position to be choosy. Besides, the fuckers are tasty.

In fact, she’ll go buy some right now.

She transfers her money into a little cloth pouch she constructed some time ago. The leather purses most people carry their money in are too obvious, and attract far too much attention in the poor and gang-ridden alleys of the city. Billie learned that the hard way when one of the Bottle Street boys spotted her with some of her first ill-gotten earnings, still in their original wrapper. There were only four coins left at that point, but those four coins could easily mean the difference between life and death for her, so she made sure she wouldn’t be made a target again.

She tosses the empty purse into the dumpster and makes for Bloodox Way, hoping to catch Griff before he gets too much Old Dunwall into him. Ironically, he’s a much worse negotiator when he’s sober.

She needn’t have worried, for she finds Griff very sober and quite disgruntled, his hands devoid of both whiskey tumbler and cigarette. A rare sight indeed. “You forgot to accessorise today.”

He starts at the sound of her voice, like he always does. “Slackjaw’s boys came and bought near my entire stock, little miss lurks-in-shadows.”

Billie cannot help but smile at the sound of his by now familiar nickname for her. “We’re in for a noise-filled night, then.”

Griff’s naturally grim expression sours further. “Don’t remind me.”

His disgruntlement does wonders for his prices. Billie haggles long enough to get him to agree to just a single coin per can of jellied eels, under the condition that she comes and picks at least one up every day. “Damn things are going stale anyway.”

She hands him her hard-stolen thirty-seven coins and is rewarded with two cans of eels and the promise of thirty-five more, which she knows is much safer than carrying the coin on her person. And Griff’s good for it. She wouldn’t go so far as to call him a friend, but he’s honest in his dealings and never looks down on her, despite her youth and inexperience. Billie hopes he’ll be around for a long time.

Congratulating herself on a deal well made, Billie loops around Bottle Street to avoid whatever party Slackjaw’s gang will be throwing, cracking open her first can as she goes.

* * *

 **Dunwall, Holger Square**  
**Unrecorded, 1826 – 1827**  
**Deirdre**

Life on the streets is _awful_.

Deirdre can barely keep her eyes open anymore; she’s been awake for what feels like weeks. More than two days, at the least. But she can’t sleep, she knows, because chances are she’ll never wake up again. And if she does, she’ll wish she hadn’t.

It’s the Fugue Feast, after all.

And Holger Square is just about the worst place to be.

Up until now, the Overseer’s base of operations was a relatively safe place for her. Some of the Abbey’s faithful occasionally took pity on the homeless girl and gave her food or some coins, keeping her from starving or having to steal to survive. Most of the Overseers didn’t much like her presence, she’s heard them whisper, but they wouldn’t dare harm her without provocation under the scrutiny of Holger’s statue.

It doesn’t take away that she has to sleep on the cold stones, or that she sometimes has to go a day without anything to eat, or that she feels so terribly alone in the world that she cries herself to sleep more often than not. But the Square is still safer than most of the rest of Dunwall.

Deirdre expected it to remain this way during the Fugue Feast – Holger Square is the holy ground of the Everyman, surely no one would think of defiling it even outside of the calendar.

How naïve of her to think so.

Not only are the Overseers just as debased as everyone else in the face of Fugue, it seems as though people make it a point to wreak havoc there where they otherwise cannot, and the Office of the High Overseer is high up on that list.

To think she used to love the Fugue, eagerly awaiting its arrival every year. Her birthday, officially, is the first of the Month of Earth, but Deirdre came into the world outside of time. She used to believe the fireworks people set off during Fugue lit up the sky just for her. Now, every pop of the pyrotechnics sounds too loud, too much like gunfire, too much like _death_.

A few hours after the Feast began, Deirdre managed to lock herself in a little shed where the Overseers keep some of their weaponry. She latched the door shut and pushed a heavy cabinet in front of the window, but still she doesn’t feel safe. The door isn’t exactly sturdy, and with everyone and their mum running around with crime on their mind, Deirdre cannot rest. She’s seen more in the past day than she’s seen in a lifetime, more than she wanted to see in her lifetime – a thunderous explosion created by a grenade, the sightless eyes of a fresh corpse, the tears of a man held at knifepoint while three others pushed his pants down and –

She didn’t stay to watch.

When she stumbled upon the shed, it had already been ransacked, only a few pistols and some spare ammo remaining. The weapons made her nervous, but she simply couldn’t pass up an empty building with an intact door.

Besides, a weapon doesn’t seem like such a bad idea right about now.

Her father owned a pistol, kept it tucked away in a locked drawer in his desk. For protection, he told her when she happened to glimpse it back when she barely reached his midriff. Deirdre never saw him use it, but he always carried it on his person when Fugue came around. _For protection_.

She loads the pistol with trembling fingers, whether from nerves or fatigue, she couldn’t say. In all honesty, she doesn’t know if she could even gather the courage to fire it, should someone manage to break through the door of her little hideout. Could she live with herself if she was responsible for someone else’s suffering, their death? The period of the Fugue Feast might not exist in official records, but the human memory isn’t so easily erased.

 _For protection_. She hears the words clear as the day her father spoke them to her. Maybe she won’t be able to shoot another person, but she refuses to end up like the man in the alley, unable to get away from a fate that may well be worse than death.

If she has to die, she’ll go on her own terms.

The pistol feels heavier in her hands now that it’s loaded, but Deirdre feels safer, too. _Protected_. Perhaps she can close her eyes for just a second…

She’s jolted awake by the booming sound of High Overseer Campbell’s voice over the speakers, calling the citizens of Dunwall to begin the hymn of atonement, which will end the festivities and ring in the year 1827. Deirdre doesn’t know if its minutes or hours after she fell asleep, but the relief of it is enough to reduce her to tears.

It’s 1827, and she’s still alive.

Leaving the pistol behind, Deirdre all but flees Holger Square, using the crowd of faithful who came to sing the hymn to escape the Overseer’s territory. She’ll never set foot near that place again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons in this chapter:
> 
> 1) Billie and Griff were bros.  
> 2) Deirdre was born during Fugue (and is about a year and a half older than Billie).  
> 3) Overseers are dicks (oh no, wait, that's actual canon. Whoops).
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	3. pick up your pieces babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre meet.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**6 th Month of Earth, 1827**  
**Billie**

Okay, so maybe ‘wonderful’ isn’t exactly the right word to describe life on the streets.

It’s still better than being at home with Mother, no contest, but it’s also _hard_. As often as her mother neglected to feed her, Billie never went without anything to eat for more than a day, and she always had a place to sleep, crappy as the matrass may have been.

Today marks the fifth day she’s gone without sustenance, and the eighth she’s been forced to sleep out in the open.

It’s absolutely _exhausting_.

Her little shelter behind the dumpster is gone – torn down some weeks ago by the new owners of the dingy little shop she built it against. That was… unfortunate, but Billie can handle it. There are plenty of nooks and crannies to sleep in, and she feels safe enough as long as she keeps her knife close. Besides, the new antique shop won’t last. Its prices are much too steep for the people who do their shopping in the back-alleys of Clavering Boulevard. She’ll likely be able to reclaim her spot before the year is halfway through. If she survives that long, mind.

No, a lack of shelter she can live with. The loss of her only friend here in the dark bowels of the Distillery District hit her much, much harder.

She never realised just how much she relied on Griff for food, how much slack he cut her when they haggled, how much she enjoyed his company. He’d been looking out for her, making sure she had enough to eat, subtly inquiring about her prospects for the night, telling her to steer clear of dangerous areas. She thought she was adapting to life on the streets, but it was really just Griff who singlehandedly kept her afloat.

And now he’s gone, some goons from the City Watch continuously patrolling the alley he calls his shop, asking everyone and everything about his whereabouts. Billie stays clear of them, taking to clambering up the rooftops to sneak by them unseen. She’s never been caught stealing, she doesn’t think, but then some of the nastier officers don’t need a reason to give a street rat a good beating. It’s not as if anyone cares enough to stop them, after all.

She staggers off John Clavering, the alley leading to the Golden Cat looming in the distance. She’s twelve years old; she’ll probably fetch a nice enough price, if she gets that desperate.

Billie is nearly that desperate.

If anyone had asked her just a month ago whether she’d ever consider spreading her legs for coin, she’d have made sure they wouldn’t have been able to sit for at least a weak. Yet now that she is well and truly starving, slowly wasting away in the gutters of Dunwall, there’s almost nothing she won’t do to quell her stomach, to stay _alive_.

She has given herself a few more hours, until nightfall, to come up with something to eat some other way, _any_ other way. Just a few coins in the gutter, a half-eaten sandwich in the dumpster, anything to keep her alive, anything to keep her from having to sell the only thing of value she still has.

If only there were a house to rob, or a sucker to steal from. But the Fugue Feast came and went just six days ago, and whatever wasn’t plundered during the period outside the calendar is now being guarded relentlessly. Storeowners have an employee supervise their property during night hours, and not a soul walking the Boulevard doesn’t have a protective hand on their pouch, terrified to lose what little wealth they have left.

Billie trips over nothing and falls hard on the cobblestones, barely catching herself on her hands. The skin splits open and they bleed, but Billie hardly feels the pain. She stays on her knees, staring numbly at her raw palms, and marvels at the deep red colour of the blood slowly trickling through her fingers. Strange, she muses idly, how beautiful something so awful can be.

The sting comes much too late, but when she feels it, some sense of clarity returns to her. She has to get up, she has to go, she has to find water, has to find food – and fast.

She gets to her feet, somehow, but some asshole who can’t be bothered to see where he’s going hits her shoulder and she crashes against the wall of the old Captain’s Chair. Unable to support herself any longer, she slides down to the floor again and stays there, using all her remaining energy to just stay awake.

If she falls asleep, it’s over.

Feet rush past her in a blur, the faithful going to Holger Square, the dissolute heading to the Cat. None of them pay the dying girl in the gutter a second glance.

“Please,” she whispers, the sound struggling to make it past her chapped lips, “just one coin…”

* * *

 **Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**6 th Month of Earth, 1827**  
**Deirdre**

Okay, so maybe ‘awful’ isn’t exactly the right word to describe life on the streets.

Deirdre still misses her home, her family and her friends, but after she decided to leave Holger Square in the wake of the Fugue Feast, her situation has improved drastically.

Begging near the Abbey gave her enough coin to scrape by, barely, a lot of the faithful wanting to keep up appearances by helping ‘less fortunate’ people like her. She thought it was the only way she could live until she found a job somewhere, but that, she realised, wasn’t true.

She can also steal.

It wasn’t something that crossed her mind before, never a viable option for sustaining herself because taking things that belong to others is wrong. But the Fugue Feast, no matter how horrible the experience, taught her some valuable lessons, not the least of which is that she really, _really_ likes living.

She thought she’d be fine with dying, had accepted it as an inevitability the moment she was forced to leave her familial home, almost looked forward to the day it would happen so she could be reunited with her parents and little brother in the Void.

Yet when the Fugue Feast came around and the possibility of death became a likelihood, all she felt was terror, a blood freezing blind panic that made her heart pound and her breathing erratic, as if her body was trying to make up for all the heartbeats it might miss. There was no peace, no sense of closure, just a pure, unadulterated desire to stay alive.

Once she’d had that realisation, her objections to petty crimes like pickpocketing and shoplifting seemed so very injudicious it was laughable. After all, what did it matter if she took a little bit of coin or food from those who could afford it, as long as it kept her alive?

Deirdre still has her boundaries; she doesn’t steal coin from those who need it themselves, she only nicks food from the store when it’s close to expiring anyway, and she’s keeping an eye out for any honest job she could do. She’s not a bad person. She only takes what she needs.

The little pouch of coin she just retrieved from a patron of the Golden Cat jingles merrily in her hand, and she smiles. Once she left Holger Square, it wasn’t hard to figure out that the rich people who visit the bathhouse are the perfect targets to pickpocket, though only when they’re returning home. When they arrive, they’re skittish, constantly looking over their shoulder, but when they come back, they’re utterly relaxed and more often than not intoxicated: easy pickings. Their coin pouches are also a lot slimmer coming out than going in, but Deirdre prefers a small and easy haul over a near certain way to get herself caught.

The scent of meat grilling makes her stomach rumble, and though she would like to spend her coin on the delicious-looking sausages, Deirdre knows better than to squander her money like that. So she drags herself away from the restaurant serving Serkonan delicacies and instead buys a loaf of dark bread and two tins of whale meat from the grocer nearby; good, hearty food that will last her a few days.

Now all she needs is a place to spend the night.

Since Fugue, she’s taken to sleeping in high places, where she can’t be easily ambushed. The rooftops of the smaller buildings are easily reached, out of sight, and, if she’s lucky, have a vent that blows hot air to blanket her from the cold night. She never stays on one roof two nights in a row, however. A homeless girl retreating to the same spot every evening will surely rouse suspicion, and she doubts anyone’ll take kindly to a stranger sleeping on their roof.

Today, she has her sights set on the Captain’s Chair Hotel, a three-story building that will give her an exceptional view of John Clavering Boulevard. It’s taller than she’s used to, but its proximity to the Cat makes it an ideal spot to scope out potential acquisitions. So Deirdre tucks her food into her knapsack, slings it onto her back, and looks for a good place to start climbing.

She’s circling the building, making a mental note of any ledges, loose bricks or overhanging vents, when a voice stops her in her tracks.

“Please…”

It’s a soft, pitiful sound that tugs at Deirdre’s heartstrings, and she whips around to see a girl sitting on the pavement, leaning heavily against the wall of the Chair for support. She seems to be struggling just to stay awake, and it’s not hard to see why. It looks like she hasn’t eaten in days.

Deirdre doesn’t need to think twice. She approaches the girl, kneeling before her and waiting for her eyes to focus. “Hey,” she says tentatively. “Are you alright?”

The other girl somehow manages a chuckle. “Fine. Only starving to death. Thanks for asking.”

Despite the situation, Deirdre cannot suppress a grin at her wicked sense of humour. “I have bread and some whale meat,” she says, patting her knapsack. “Want to share?”

The girl’s eyes light up, and then they harden. “What do you want in return?”

Deirdre smiles. “How about your name?”

A long silence follows, in which the girl stares at her incredulously. Then: “I’m Billie.”

“Deirdre.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Death of the Outsider has a plethora of references to Deirdre, which is awesome, but has also forced me to throw some of my headcanons out the window to make room for actual canon. I'll be spending some time looking over the notes and cutscenes mentioning Deirdre so I can write the best representation of her and Billie's relationship.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	4. sure that I won't stray too far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre sit on a roof, eat, and have something resembling a conversation.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**6 th – 7th  Month of Earth, 1827**  
**Billie**

The bread is the most delicious thing she’s tasted in her life.

It’s stale, its crust is slightly burned, and whoever made it put too much yeast in the dough, but that doesn’t stop Billie from nearly inhaling her half of the loaf, not even bothering to top it with whale meat. The strange girl who let her have the food in exchange for nothing but her name is much more reserved, breaking off a chunk of bread and using a small spoon to scoop some meat onto it. She eats agonisingly slowly; it seems as though she’s only just taking her first bite when Billie shovels the last of the whale meat into her mouth.

She’s perceptive, though, catching Billie staring at her remaining food almost immediately. Wordlessly, she breaks her remaining bread in two and offers Billie half. The bigger half, Billie doesn’t fail to notice.

Her hunger wins out over her pride, and she accepts the bread with a mumbled thanks. She nibbles at it slowly, making it last to keep her from having to start a conversation. Billie wouldn’t know what to say. Besides her aunt Meagan and Griff, no one has ever been this nice to her before, and it’s making her distinctly uncomfortable.

Even back home, children her age were cruel more often than not, indifferent in the best case. After all, she was always the weird one with the baggy clothes who didn’t know how to read or write for shit because her alcoholic mother never bothered to teach her. And out here, on the streets, parents don’t let their children come within ten feet of someone like her. Billie’s seen other street kids hanging around Bottle Street, trying to get in good with Slackjaw and his crew, but they’re all older, at least sixteen, and none of them want anything to do with the little stick of a thirteen-year-old she is, even if she could probably kick their asses from here to next week if she wanted to. She’s had a lot of practice on her old neighbourhood kids, after all.

But this girl, Deirdre, she’s not like anyone Billie’s met before. She’s kind, and patient, and undemanding, and Billie has no idea what to say or do.

Deirdre doesn’t seem to either, but at least she tries.

“So, Billie,” she begins, uncertainly, her sharp eyes focussed on the setting sun, “do you also have a last name?”

“Foster,” Billie answers shortly, because she despises the family name she shares with the harlot she calls Mother. “But I prefer lurks-in-shadows.”

If that surprises Deirdre, she doesn’t show it. “Well, that’s a mouthful. Would you mind if I shortened it to Lurk?”

Billie cannot supress the snort. “Sure, whatever you want.”

It takes several seconds before she realises it’s her turn to ask a question now, because that’s how conversations work. “Do you have more? Names, I mean.”

She could kick herself for the lame question and the awkward wording, but Deirdre just smiles. “My last name is Ailtire,” she says, sounding both proud and sad at the same time. “Middle name Cethlenn, after my grandmother.”

“Deirdre Cethlenn Ailtire,” Billie repeats, trying and failing to replicate the soft vowels of Deirdre’s accent. “Sounds Morleyan.”

“It is. My parents moved from Morley to Gristol not long before the Insurrection started. They were pro-Empire,” Deirdre explains, using her hands to act out her words. “Not pro-Empire enough to give me a Gristolian name, mind, but I think Dad just wanted to name me after his mother and Mom saved me from a life condemned as Cethlenn the Second by suggesting the titular character of his favourite story instead. So Cethlenn became my second name and now I share my moniker with the fictional girl who killed herself out of misery, which is lovely because it’s still better than Cethlenn.”

She stops short suddenly, hands dropping to her sides. “Oh. I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Billie shrugs, because she was.

Deirdre looks ashamed. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” Billie hastens to reassure her, because the quiet was so much worse and Deirdre has a pleasant voice. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s rude is what it is,” Deirdre says firmly. “My brother Ardan always did say I talk too much, though I’m pretty sure he just didn’t want me to embarrass him in front of his friends. Which, granted, I may have done once or twice. Purely incidentally, of course. There was this one time – ” She chuckles nervously, twirling a strand of her shockingly red hair around a finger. “And there I go again.”

She shifts on the edge of the roof they sit on, turning her body to face Billie and looks her in the eyes. “Tell me about you, Billie Foster-Lurk.”

Billie looks away. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Well, where are you from?” Deirdre encourages, gently.

“Dunwall. Rust District.”

Deirdre looks surprised. “Really? Have you lived there long?”

Billie frowns, feeling her mood sour. Her darker complexion has always made people mistrustful, as if she could help it that her mother thought it wise to fall into bed with a man from an unnamed Isle just off the coast of Pandyssia and expected him to stay in the shithole that was Dunwall. “What, just because I’m a Soot I can’t have possibly been born here?”

Deirdre blinks, confused. “Ah, a ‘Soot’?”

Billie slaps the skin of her wrist with the back of her other hand, sharply, three times. “Like soot,” she grinds out between clenched teeth, “only it doesn’t come off.”

Several tense, silent seconds follow. Then Deirdre’s eyes widen in recognition, and she stumbles over her own words in an attempt to rectify the situation. “Outsider’s eyes, Billie, that’s not what I meant! I just – we had a neighbour who used to go to the Rust District for business a lot, at the old Berrington Ironworks, but then he moved like two years ago and we lost contact with him and I just wondered if you maybe met him before, but I don’t even know if he still has dealings there because I haven’t even seen him in two years and that’s why I asked how long you’d lived in the District and I’m so – ”

She only stops talking when Billie grabs a hold of her hands, stopping their rapid movements. “Okay, it’s okay!”

They hold hands for a second too long, and Billie pulls away hastily, putting some distance between them. “I’m sorry. I get kind of defensive when it comes to, you know, stuff like that,” she admits, fiddling with the empty whale meat can to avoid looking at Deirdre. “People are always jerks about it.”

She expects Deirdre to either laugh at her or pity her, but the Morleyan girl defies her assumptions once again. “Well, I, for one, think you’re beautiful.”

Billie’s head shoots up and she stares straight into Deirdre’s green eyes, looking for any sign of mockery or deceit. But she holds her gaze steadily, sincerely, and Billie, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, quickly looks away again and tries to lighten the mood with a witty remark. “I’m not a hooker, you know.”

Now Deirdre laughs, the sound echoing across the empty street below. “Well damn, girl, then what’d I waste my time on you for?”

Billie chuckles too. “Restrict the Wanton Flesh,” she says, lowering her voice in a mimic of the Overseer who stands in the middle of Holger Square proclaiming the Seven Strictures every day. “Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire.”

“Oh Void, you sound just like him!” Deirdre chokes out between shrieks of laughter, clutching her stomach. “Stop it, I can’t breathe!”

Billie tries to finish the Stricture in her slow, monotone rumble, but Deirdre’s mirth is infectious, and soon she’s laughing with her, loudly, without reservations. She cannot remember ever letting herself go like this, always living in fear of her mother taking away any scrap of joy she might have found, and the feeling is absolutely liberating.

They don’t stop until an officer of the City Watch patrolling the streets below them bellows at them to shut it, and even then it’s a struggle to keep their snickering contained. It takes Billie a long time to catch her breath.

Deirdre wipes at her eyes. “You make a splendid Overseer, you know that?”

“Hey, you don’t have to insult me just because I won’t sleep with you,” Billie retorts, grinning.

Deirdre chucks one of the empty whale meat cans at her, but there’s no venom behind the throw. “And here I was going to ask you to spend the night with me.”

Billie abandons her search for the second can. “Spend the night with you?”

“Yeah,” Deirdre shrugs, attempting to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. “Not like _that_ , just… sleeping. Back-to-back.”

“Just sleeping. Back-to-back,” Billie repeats, amused. “What, no spooning?”

“Only if I get to be the little spoon,” she jokes, but her smile is faint and her eyebrows drawn in. She sighs, and her expression turns serious. “I understand if you don’t want to. I just thought it would be a good idea to stick together, at least for a while. Watch out for one another. Make sure no one gets their throat slit while they sleep.”

Billie thinks of the knife in her boot; unlike Deirdre, she has the means and the ability to defend herself. Having to protect someone else won’t make things easier for her. But she also thinks of the gnawing hunger she felt not hours ago, and the warm feeling of joy that accompanied sharing quips with another, and then the choice isn’t difficult at all.

“Sure,” she says, trying not to sound as pleased as she feels. “Why not?”

Deirdre beams at her.

Billie doesn’t sleep a wink that night, the close presence of another person making it impossible for her to relax. Next to her, underneath the same thin blanket, Deirdre is out like a light, her breathing slow and even, the ghost of a smile on her lips. She can’t fathom how her companion is vast asleep, how much she must trust Billie to let down her guard so completely, to be this vulnerable around her.

But then, she knows, most people aren’t as mistrustful as Billie. Most people also didn’t have to fear falling asleep at night, wondering whether this would be the day their mother finally snapped and strangled them in their sleep.

Apparently Deirdre didn’t either.

Billie is glad for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter isn't late at all.
> 
> Headcanons in this chapter:
> 
> 1) Deirdre is Morleyan. This is already semi-canon considering her Irish name and red hair, but I decided to make it ' official' in this fic. The name Cethlenn, like Deirdre, comes for old Irish mythology, and Ailtire is old Irish for architect, which was her father's profession. Her brother's name, Ardan, also comes from old Irish mythology.  
> 2) Deirdre can talk really fast, especially when she's nervous or excited, and she uses her hands to act out her words - a side effect from helping to teach her brother how to read.  
> 3) Billie had to deal with racism. Seeing how Gristolians behave towards Serkonans, Islanders were probably subject to similar treatment. This, especially in combination with her mother's treatment of her, left her very insecure, and so she's very defensive about her apprearance and her heritage.
> 
> If you're still here, thank you for sticking with me! <3


	5. it's not your fault when no one taught you how

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre fail at pickpocketing and have a heart-to-heart about their past.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**9 th – 10th Month of Earth, 1827**  
**Deirdre**

The first time they attempt to pickpocket some coins off a patron of the Golden Cat, Deirdre learns two things about Billie Lurk, and also something about herself.

First and foremost, Deirdre is a terrible actress. She doesn’t know how to deceive, never got into her role, couldn’t stop sending worried glances at Billie as she crept up behind their target. Second, Billie is not the greatest pickpocket, not swift nor nuanced enough, and their combined efforts got them caught in the blink of an eye.

Third, Billie knows the alleys off John Clavering Boulevard better than Deirdre knows the back of her own hand.

“Dammit,” Billie pants heavily, leaning from behind the wall they’re pressed against to check for their pursuer. “I thought I had it.”

“Too… slow,” Deirdre grinds out between clenched teeth, clutching her calf. The scar throbs with every heartbeat.

Billie scowls. “Yeah, no shit. Thank you for the astute observation.”

“Sorry.” She leans against the wall to get her weight off her leg. “Old scar. Hurts.”

Billie’s expression changes from annoyed to worried in a flash. “Must be damn painful, if it keeps you from forming complete sentences,” she jokes, but her tone is tense. “Can I see?”

Deirdre pulls up the leg of her pants, exposing the raw tissue that makes up most of her calf now, and Billie’s eyes widen. “Damn. How the fuck did that happen?”

“Carriage accident,” Deirdre says, letting her pants cover the ugliness again. “Metal sheet embedded itself.”

Billie’s gaze does not lift from her leg, even now that there’s nothing to see anymore. “Sorry,” she offers, in a soft voice Deirdre hasn’t heard from her before. “Must suck.”

As the pain subsides, Deirdre is able to muster a smile. “It’s not that bad, really. I can always tell when it’s going to rain now, so that’s nice.” The words sound unconvincing even to her own ears. “Besides, I don’t like to complain about it. It could’ve been worse.”

Billie snorts a laugh. “Yeah, better your leg than your skull, right?”

It’s meant as a jest, a deflection, because Billie is uncomfortable discussing personal things like this. Deirdre knows that, but it doesn’t stop the images flashing before her eyes, of her father’s dead stare inches from her face, his head cracked open so wide she could see exactly where the pipe had imbedded itself in his brain. She’s seen the same thing in her dreams every night since she regained consciousness, never woke without a silent scream on her lips and tears in her eyes – at least, not until two nights ago. With the comfortable sensation of another person next to her, she’d fallen into a dreamless sleep, and awoke feeling fully rested for the first time since she left her home.

Deirdre doesn’t want to lose that. She doesn’t want to lose _her_.

Breaking down in front of Billie is a sure way to scare her off, so she exhales sharply and swallows away the growing lump in her throat. “Definitely,” she says, and her voice only sounds slightly strangled.

Billie’s eyebrows draw together, forming an expression that could easily be mistaken for a scowl, though Deirdre knows it’s not. She looks very much like she wants to say something, but she purses her lips and then sneaks another glance around their wall. “We should move.”

Her tone books no room for argument, so Deirdre gives none when Billie takes her hand and leads her through the maze of alleyways at a brisk speed. They halt in a dead-end nook that contains naught but a dumpster, a spot well-hidden from prying eyes.

Billie circles around the dumpster and her face lights up. “They left the mattress,” she says happily, flopping down on an old, filthy piece of bedding that may indeed have once been a mattress.

Deirdre sets down her knapsack and sits herself down carefully on the very edge of the mattress, which is softer than she expected. “You’ve been here before?”

“Hah, I basically lived here for a few months,” Billie confirms, “until this shop was taken over by a couple of pricks. They don’t like me much. I can only come here on Sundays now.”

A few months. It strikes Deirdre, not for the first time, how well-adapted Billie is to life on the streets, how much she seems at home here. She has a million questions, wants to know everything there is to know about this tough, independent girl she so luckily chanced upon. She doesn’t ask, though. Deirdre is nothing if not empathic, and it’s hard to miss that Billie doesn’t like to talk about herself.

Billie sits up straight, shaking out her short hair. “So what’s the deal with you today?”

Deirdre blinks. “The uh, deal?”

“Yeah,” Billie says, the shrug of her shoulders just a tad too tense to be nonchalant. “You’ve been acting weird since we botched the pickpocket. Quiet. Heck, I was expecting half a dozen questions about the mattress alone, not to mention everything else.”

Deirdre feels her jaw drop. “Wait, you _want_ me to ask questions?” she asks, incredulous. Damn it, and she thought she had this girl pegged. “Void, Billie, I thought you didn’t like to talk about yourself so I kept quiet even though I really would like to ask where that mattress came from, and how you got it here, and if you ever – ”

It’s Billie’s growing smile that stops her. “ _There_ she is,” Billie grins proudly.

Deirdre feels the heat rise in her cheeks, and she looks down at her hands, which are clenched tightly together in her lap. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Billie says, perhaps more sharply than she intended. “I mean, you’re right. I don’t like to talk about myself much. I just…” She sighs deeply, and it’s clear she struggles to get the next words out. “I was worried you thought I wasn’t interesting enough for you to stick around or something, alright?”

Deirdre stares at her, and a chuckle escapes her purely because the idea is absolutely ludicrous. “I don’t think anyone could ever consider you uninteresting, Billie Lurk.”

Billie looks away, but Deirdre can see her lips curl into a smile, and that’s enough. “How about this?” she asks, scooting closer to Billie on the mattress. “I’ll try not to ask you too many questions, and if I do, please just stop me, alright? And if you do want to tell me something, I’ll be here to listen.”

Now it’s Billie’s turn to stare in awe. “I… yeah, okay.”

Deirdre nods, drawing up her knees and leaning against the brick wall of the antiquary. She begins to massage her calf, gently rubbing around the edges of the scar tissue like the doctor told her to. She’s at it for a long while, or at least it feels that way, when Billie speaks in very, very small voice.

“I’m not – I mean, my mother, she never – ” Billie attempts to begin. She hits the empty dumpster with her fist, hard, the sound echoing throughout the alleyway. “Oh Voiddammit! My mom was a bitch,” she finally spits out, her eyes carefully avoiding Deirdre’s. “Liked to yell at me. Hit me, if she felt like it, which was almost always. We didn’t exactly talk, so I don’t… I don’t really know how any of this is supposed to work,” she finishes lamely, gesturing at the space between herself and Deirdre.

Deirdre, on her part, has to swallow away the growing lump in her throat. No wonder Billie’s been so guarded the whole time. She can’t fathom a mother not loving her child, cannot recall or even imagine her own mother so much as spanking her. “Thank you for telling me,” she says when she’s found her voice again. “I won’t pretend I know what you’ve gone through, but I am sorry. No one should be treated that way.”

Billie picks at a hole in the mattress, muttering her next question so quietly Deirdre almost misses it. “Deirdre, what’s your mother like?”

It isn’t a question she expected, but she obliges gladly. “Mom was… wonderful. She loved to bake, and sing, and play the piano. She tried to teach me to play, once, but that was an unprecedented disaster; our neighbours didn’t talk to us for days.” She smiles through the tears that have appeared in her eyes. “She loved me. I miss her.”

Now Billie looks at her. “She’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

Billie hesitates, but she asks the question anyway. “How?”

Deirdre’s smile turns wry. “Carriage accident. Metal sheet embedded itself,” she repeats herself. “Just… in her chest instead of her leg.”

“Oh. Fucking hell,” Billie curses softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… well, you know.”

“No, it’s alright,” Deirdre says, sincerely. “I miss them, sure, but talking about them is… oddly liberating.”

“Them?” Billie asks impulsively, but it dawns on her quickly. “Your father too?”

Deirdre nods once. “And my brother as well. I got lucky. I made it out.”

Billie snorts sardonically. “Some luck.”

She’s thought the same, on her darker days. “Well, look at it from the bright side,” she says, attempting to sound cheerful and even succeeding to some degree. “If none of that had happened, I’d never have met you.”

Billie’s expression is unreadable as she leans back to sit right beside her, their shoulders just shy of touching. They’re silent for a while, watching a lone little rat scurry lazily in the gutter, mindless of their presence. Deirdre’s nearly nodded off when Billie asks, in that small voice that betrays just how young she still is, “Would you tell me about them? Your family?”

Deirdre is more than happy to, so she spends the evening telling stories of her childhood. How her father spoiled her despite her mother’s protests. How her mother pretended not to see her when she snuck into the kitchen to steal an apricot tart. How her brother curled up against her at night as she read him bedtime stories.

She talks for a long time, and stops only when she feels a weight drop onto her shoulder, and discovers that Billie has fallen fast asleep. She must have been exhausted, the poor thing. Deirdre hasn’t failed to realise just how little Billie has slept these past two nights.

So she takes the blanket from her knapsack and carefully covers the two of them, and then deigns it safe to briefly get some shuteye herself.

They’re woken up by a loud screech of indignation the next morning, when the antiquary’s shrew of an owner discovers them in her alley, and they’re forced to flee.

It was worth it, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone! =D  
> Have a chapter to celebrate!


	6. I was holding up these streets just fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre face the consequences of their actions, and an old friend returns.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**13 th – 19th Month of Harvest, 1827**  
**Billie**

Deirdre, as it turns out, is an absolute killer pickpocket.

Though she can’t play the piano, she does have a piano player’s hands, all long, nimble fingers, and they can slide in and out of a man’s coinpurse in the blink of an eye. It’s a marvel to behold.

Billie, in turn, finds that she’s more than a decent actress, years of telling her mother what she wanted to hear translating into a silver tongue she never knew she possessed.

They make a stellar team.

So it’s no surprise that barely a month after their first successful heist, the warnings begin to pop up.

Deirdre reads the paper with a frown on her face, looking both worried and disgusted at the same time. “Well, that could prove problematic.”

“What’s it say?” Billie asks from her spot perched atop a low wall, munching her way through an apple.

“To beware of a cutpurse with red hair, and her accomplice,” Deirdre sighs, flicking her waist-length braid over her shoulder for emphasis. “Embellished by some… less than friendly terms to describe Morleyans.”

“‘Accomplice’?” Billie snorts disdainfully, chucking her apple core as far as she can down the street. “Would have at least expected some slurs about filthy Islanders or something. The writing of those things is getting worse and worse.”

“Billie, be serious for a minute,” Deirdre pleads, her voice strained. “This could have a real impact on us.”

Billie hops down. “Well, it just says redhead, right? Not even a drawing or anything. Can’t be too bad.”

“Yeah,” Deirdre breathes, the furrow of her brow smoothening out. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m overreacting, surely. It can’t really be that bad.”

It really can be that bad.

Billie never really noticed just how few people on the streets of Dunwall have red hair. Perhaps there are more than the eye can discern, those who use dye to mask the colour hiding in plain sight. Red hair is a trait so strongly associated with Morley most Gristolians won’t be caught dead a ginger, not after the Morley Insurrection.

Deirdre stands out from the crowd like a lighthouse atop a lonely cliff, and now that the description of a ginger pickpocket has been pasted on near every wall surrounding John Clavering Boulevard, their every attempt at a sting is thwarted before Billie can even begin charming the target. People are on edge, subconsciously distrustful of the colour red, and just seeing Deirdre approach from the corner of their eye makes them hold a protective hand over their purses.

It’s beyond frustrating.

“This is the last of it,” Deirdre says miserably not a week after the first posters have gone up, handing Billie a measly handful of coins. They’ve been rationing their last haul as best they could, but there’s only so much food a small pouch can buy. Once it’s gone, chances are they’ll have to pack up and move to a different part of the city, something neither of them is very keen on. John Clavering Boulevard and its surrounding alleyways have quickly become home for them.

“I’ll get us as much as I can,” Billie assures her. There’s a shopkeeper just outside the Bottle Street Gang’s territory who took her for one of Slackjaw’s messengers the first time she came in. The sizeable discount that came with that role kept Billie from bothering to correct him. His prices still aren’t as good as Griff’s were, but there’s no better deal to be found on this side of the Wrenhaven River. “You’ve any problems with jellied eels?”

Deirdre makes a face. “Can’t say I’m a fan, but anything that’s not rotten is a feast right about now,” she concedes with a shrug, “so go nuts.”

“So brined hagfish then?”

Deirdre visibly shivers at the thought. “Please make that your very, very last resort.”

“I thought our very, very last resort was looking through the garbage?” Billie grins, amused despite the severity of their finances.

“Oh no, that’s just our very last resort,” Deirdre counters with a cheeky smile of her own. “Brined hagfish is a whole new level of desperate.”

“You philistine,” Billie says fondly. “Brined hagfish is a Gristolian national treasure!”

“Good thing I’m Morleyan,” Deirdre responds cheerily, without missing a beat. “Now go on! It’ll be sundown soon.”

“Yes grandma, wouldn’t want to break curfew now,” Billie can’t help but quip one last time before departing. Dodging the shoe Deirdre lazily chucks her way, she climbs down the drainpipe of the building atop which they made camp for the day, landing in a deserted alley just off the main street.

She mostly avoids the Bottle Street Gang’s territory, circling around their eponymous street and heading down Bloodox Way instead. Slackjaw runs a better show than most others, but Billie still doesn’t trust his boys to keep from having some ‘harmless’ fun with a guttersnipe like herself.

“… get a spankin’ new one for less than that!” a disgruntled voice drifts in from further along the road, and Billie flattens herself against the wall on instinct. She’d know old Crawley’s voice anywhere, not in the least because he tends to shout loud enough for the Empress to hear him in her tower, and she’s really not up for dealing with Slackjaw’s right hand man.

Billie’s already halfway up the rooftops when a second voice stops her short. “But that’s just the thing, they don’t make any like these anymore. It’s a collector’s item now, you see, and that comes with an increase in value.”

Crawley grumbles discontentedly. “Ugh, fuckin’ _fine_. Boss’ll tan my hide if I don’t bring him a new pipe. But you’re throwin’ in a bottle of that Morleyan fruit crap Dennian likes.”

“That’ll be the Serkonan fig wine, of course. Pleasure doing business with you, master Crawley.”

Crawley stomps off back to wherever Slackjaw’s making merry tonight, the echo of his heavy footsteps fading quickly. Billie waits a full minute before she dares to move further along Bloodox Way, but when she does, she runs.

She’s loud enough for him to notice her approach, even with his bad hearing. “What happened to lurking in the shadows, little miss?”

Billie cannot stop the grin that spreads across her face. “Wasn’t necessary. This place has been deserted for a while now.”

Griff smirks slyly. “Ah, yes. Unfortunate misunderstanding with the gentlemen of the City Watch. All cleared up now, no harm done.”

“Good to know you’re an upstanding citizen, not that I expected anything else,” she quips, knowing damn well the City Watch misunderstood exactly nothing.

His smile softens as he looks her over, subtly, but not imperceptibly. “Looks like you made a friend.”

“What makes you say that?” she asks sharply, immediately suspicious.

“Because you’re alive,” Griff says simply, “and because no one survives long in these parts without a little help.”

Billie wants to protest, wants to feel affronted at his lack of faith in her ability to survive on her own, but then he’s the one who kept her afloat during her first months on the streets, and that she knows all too well. “Her name’s Deirdre.”

Griff nods approvingly. “You ought to bring her around sometime. I’d like to see if she has your skill with haggling.”

“Haggling? Deirdre?” Billie chuckles despite herself. “She’d sooner slip you some extra coin because she feels guilty for underpaying.”

He raises an eyebrow, and Billie is quick to clarify, “But she’s really good at pickpo– I mean, acquiring funds.”

Griff leans back against the wall, fishing a cigar from one of the numerous pockets of his jacket. “Sounds like a keeper.”

“Yeah,” Billie smiles softly, “she is.”

Griff puffs out a large cloud of smoke. “Ah, young love.”

Billie balks, almost immediately feeling her cheeks heat up. “It’s not – we’re not – I’m not _in love_ with her!” she sputters out indignantly.

“Sure you’re not. And I didn’t just sell Crawley a five coin tobacco pipe at ten times its value.”

She crosses her arms and purses her lips sulkily. “Like that’s a fair comparison. Crawley would pay a hundred gold for the lint in your pocket.”

Griff lets out a bark of laughter, quickly followed by a hacking cough. Billie walks up to him and snatches the cigar from his fingers, throwing it onto the ground and sniffing it out with her shoe. “You’re going to kill yourself, you know.”

He grumbles, looking forlornly at the mess of tobacco. “I think you’ll be the death of me first.”

She grins. “I live to serve.”

“That’s my line, you ingrate,” he bites out good-naturedly, producing a fresh cigar and lighting it in one fluid motion. “Don’t you want to buy some jellied eels or something?”

Billie perks up. “Well, actually – ”

“Whoa there,” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “Afraid I don’t actually have any eels left. Slackjaw has a new recruit who eats the stuff by the bucket, buys it in bulk.”

Her face falls, and he is quick to add “But I do have a couple of tins of brined hagfish for a great price!”

Remembering the look of utter disgust on Deirdre’s face, Billie laughs. “I don’t think I can rightly come home with that. Any whale meat, perchance?”

“I have a few cans, but they don’t come cheap,” Griff says, sounding apologetic. “Three coins a can.”

It’s still much less than a regular store would charge, the price for whale meat having skyrocketed since some hack natural philosopher claimed the meat works just like the oil, giving a man tremendous energy all day long. But with seven coins in her pocket and two mouths to feed, it’s not a good deal.

She sighs. “Look, I’ll be frank. I have seven coins and there isn’t much more coming in any time soon. What can you give me?”

She holds out the meagre supply of money, but he doesn’t take it. “I thought you said your lady friend was good at acquiring funds?”

“She is,” Billie says defensively. “It’s not her fault.”

Griff scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Miss Deirdre wouldn’t happen to be the redheaded cutpurse that has been terrorising this fine neighbourhood, would she?”

Billie narrows her eyes. “No, I’m sure they mean another ginger pickpocket. They’re everywhere these days.”

“But of course, forgive me for the assumption,” Griff chuckles. “Though I may have something that will prevent others from making the same mistake in the future.”

Her ears perk up. “I’m listening.”

Griff rummages through the large trunk that holds the majority of his inventory, and emerges holding a little brown baker boy hat. “A crier traded me this a little while ago, when the Dunwall Courier laid him off,” he says, handing the cap to Billie. “It’s nothing fancy, but it ought to prevent people from making incorrect assumptions about your friend.”

It’s so simple, and yet so brilliant. Billie can’t believe she didn’t come up with it herself. “How much?”

“Five coins. And I’ll give you a can of whale meat for two.”

“Throw in a tin of brined hagfish and you have a deal.”

“Leech,” he grumbles, but there’s no malice behind the insult, and he trades her few measly coins for the three items without further complaints. “You know where to spend any newly ‘acquired funds’, don’t you?”

Billie flashes him a grin as she carefully tucks away her purchases. “Wouldn’t want to shop anywhere else,” she says sincerely. “If only so I can see Crawley get ripped off every once in a while.”

“I live to serve,” Griff says, giving her an over-the-top bow. “Now go on, get out of here. Sun’s setting and I’m sure your girlfriend is worried about you.”

Billie is halfway back to Deirdre when she fully realises that Griff just referred to Deirdre as her girlfriend.

It doesn’t bother her as much as it probably should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Griff is a smart cookie.


	7. I promise, love is not for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre get a hotel room.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**11 th Month of Rain, 1827**  
**Deirdre**

As the months pass and the weather turns colder, Dunwall’s rooftops become too chilly for them to sleep on, and so they’re forced to seek alternatives. Most nights it’s an empty home or store, a building between owners, which aren’t too hard to find thanks to Slackjaw and the harsh policies he’s instilled for those living in his part of the District.

Some nights, however, when they manage to swipe a haul larger than they’re comfortable carrying around, they treat themselves to a room at the Captain’s Chair.

Like tonight, for example.

“Oh, I can’t wait to take a hot bath,” Deirdre says longingly as they make their way across the bustling Boulevard. “I feel like I haven’t been properly clean in ages.”

“Or properly warm,” Billie supplies, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “I hate the cold months.”

“You do know that’s like, eleven of the months right?”

“I stand by my statement.”

Deirdre chuckles merrily. “Maybe we should move to Karnaca. I don’t think Serkonans even know what snow is.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

“You wouldn’t miss snow?”

“You would?”

“I would. I love snow.”

Billie scoffs. “Yeah, but you love basically everything, so that doesn’t count.”

“Someone’s grumpy today,” Deirdre observes almost lazily, though the waver in her voice betrays her concern.

Billie instantly feels guilty. “Sorry. It’s cold and there’s too many fucking people here. What’s even up today?”

“I don’t know,” Deirdre says thoughtfully as she scans the busy crowd. “What’s the date?”

“I think the… eleventh?”

“Of Rain, right?”

“You are not seriously asking me what Month it is.”

“Maybe,” Deirdre says, a mischievous smile on her lips. “So is the year really 1827 or have I really been out of the loop that long?”

That earns her a shove, but she just laughs. “It does explain the people, though.”

“What, that it’s 1827?”

“No, that it’s the eleventh. Of Rain.”

Billie’s brow furrows in confusion. “Why?”

“Because tomorrow’s the twelfth of Rain.”

Billie stops walking and crosses her arms. “Are you just fucking with me now?”

Deirdre halts too, ignoring the angry muttering of those having to walk around the two of them. “I’m not,” she says earnestly, as it dawns on her that Billie’s befuddlement isn’t feigned. “The twelfth of Rain is Lovers’ Day.”

“Oh,” Billie says flatly, “that crap.”

Deirdre raises an eyebrow. “‘That crap?’”

Billie just shrugs and begins to walk again. “It’s a bullshit holiday, just an excuse for the florists and bakers to guilt people into buying gifts. If you really love someone you don’t need some special day to show it. You ought to do that every damn day.”

Her voice is louder than she perhaps realises, and a few people turn their head in shock. Deirdre smiles benignly at them, stepping closer to Billie at the same time. “Alright, that’s true,” she says in a deliberately low volume, “but sometimes people just need a little extra incentive. Especially when it comes to confessing love for the first time.”

“Right,” Billie snorts derisively. “Because if you’re too craven to man up any other day, the twelfth of Rain will magically give you courage.”

“It did for me, once.”

She can feel Billie’s eyes on her, can practically see the scowl even though she doesn’t meet her gaze. “Well, considering you’ll be spending this Lovers’ Day with me,” she drawls eventually, “it obviously didn’t work out so well.”

Deirdre just smiles, crinkling her nose. “Who says I want to spend it with anyone else?”

The shade of crimson that flushes Billie’s cheeks is beautiful.

* * *

The Captain’s Chair isn’t housing too many tonight, most of the men who generally use the hotel to cheat on their wives feeling too guilty to do so today. It comes as a relief, since the last time they stayed at the hotel neither caught much sleep thanks to the precariously thin walls of the place.

“This is the life,” Billie sighs happily as she lets herself fall onto the bed, kicking off her shoes at the same time. “Wish we could stay here every night.”

“Yeah,” Deirdre concurs wishfully from her spot at the desk, working her hair free of its braid. “Maybe, if tomorrow’s slow too, they’ll let us stay another night for a reduced fee.”

“Maybe,” Billie echoes, but Deirdre can tell she doesn’t really believe it. It’s not a surprise; Billie likes to be cautious, to not expect too much of others. That way, they can’t disappoint her.

Deirdre combs through her hair with her fingers, and she wonders, not for the first time, if she should start looking for a job. A steady supply of coin could get them off the streets, make Billie’s dream of staying in a cosy room like this a reality. Perhaps the bakery down the street could use someone, or maybe the bar two blocks away. Heck, maybe this hotel needed someone to man the front desk, or help with bookkeeping. She ought to ask in the morning.

“So tell me,” Billie says, sitting upright on the bed, “what’s the story behind you and Lovers’ Day?”

“Hmmm?” Deirdre asks absentmindedly, her thoughts still on potential employment. “What story?”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Billie asks, sounding displeased but smirking at the same time. “Ugh, fine. The story behind you ‘confessing your love’. On Lovers’ Day.”

“Uh-huh.”

One of Billie’s shoes sails right past her head and hits the wall with a thump, and Deirdre lets out an involuntary shriek of surprise. “What the hell, Billie?”

“You were spacing out,” Billie shrugs, her lips curved into a shit-eating grin. “Had to grab your attention somehow.”

“Giving me a heart attack is one way to do that, I suppose.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m pretty sure you took at least three years of my life expectancy.”

For good measure, Billie throws her other shoe as well. “Come on. Story. Tell me.”

“Would you tell me something first?” Deirdre asks, because her tale is long and she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get a chance to ask Billie this again.

“Sure.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Billie’s eyes widen, and Deirdre can tell the question makes her uncomfortable, but she answers anyway. “No.”

“Really?” Deirdre can’t help but ask, feeling vaguely disappointed without knowing entirely why. “Never?”

She expects Billie to scoff at her, but instead she looks down at her bare feet. “I… don’t really know. Maybe. Once,” she mutters. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s okay,” Deirdre says, because she knows pushing Billie won’t amount to anything, even if she desperately wants to know who, and when, and how, and why.

She sits next to Billie on the bed and folds her hands in her lap. “I was head over heels in love four years ago,” she begins her story, quietly. “I thought confessing on Lovers’ Day was the most romantic thing I could do. I was ten. Probably a big enough clue to know it wouldn’t work out, but you know, hindsight’s twenty-twenty.”

She pauses, wondering how best to proceed, but Billie isn’t patient enough for that. “What happened?”

Deirdre hums as she thinks. “There was this boy,” she says eventually, and she’s surprised to see Billie’s face morph into an angry frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says through clenched teeth. “Just already know I’m not going to like this fucker.”

Deirdre laughs. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sincerely doubt that,” Billie counters, arms crossed. “Go on.”

“Okay, so there was a boy. Just to make sure you can’t track him down and kill him, I’m going to name him Jack for the purpose of this story.”

“Smartass,” Billie mutters, but her smile betrays her.

“His father was an engineer,” Deirdre continues. “He and my Dad worked together a lot, and they became good friends. They lived nearby, too. Our families spent lots of time together, so it wasn’t really a surprise when he and I grew close. I’m pretty sure our mothers were already imagining our wedding day when we were five years old. Our fathers sure did. I heard them talking about it one day, how nice it would be for all of us to become family.”

She can’t help the slightly bitter tone that laces her voice as she continues. “Lovely idea, really. The only problem was that I didn’t like him that way at all.”

“You didn’t?” Billie blinks in surprise. “Then what’s he got to do with anything?”

“Because when I was ten years old, I went to his house on Lovers’ Day,” Deirdre says softly. “I still don’t know where I got the courage from. I remember how long it took me to ring the doorbell. I was shaking in my boots.

“His mother wore such a knowing smile when she let me in. Knew exactly why I had come on that particular day. It was warmer that year, so she took me outside. He and his twin sister were playing on the swings in the backyard.”

Deirdre breathes deeply. “So I did what I came to do. I walked right past the boy, kneeled before his sister and told her I was in love with her.”

Billie gasps, and Deirdre smiles weakly. “I thought the worst that could happen was her rejecting me. We were never very religious, didn’t attend any of the Abbey’s sermons. I didn’t know the punishment for such… _perversities_ was death. Is death, still.

“The friendship between our families was enough to keep her parents from calling the Overseers, but that’s where the pleasantries ended.” She’s choking on her words now, tears in her eyes, but she keeps talking. “I went along with what my mother told me I should say, pretended everything had been a big joke. They accepted that, promised to keep it quiet, but… things were never the same again.”

She cannot contain the sob that escapes her. “The way she looked at me. Like I was mad. Diseased. I saw that look on her face and I couldn’t believe I ever thought she was pretty.”

There’s a long, heavy silence, during which Deirdre rubs fervently at her eyes to stop the tears. “Sorry,” she mumbles when she’s caught her breath. “I thought I was over this. Guess not, huh?”

Billie tucks in her knees, angling her body to face Deirdre. “So, which part of this story is supposed to make me like Lovers’ Day? Because I’m pretty sure it consolidates my earlier sentiment perfectly. It’s crap.”

And despite herself, Deirdre laughs, if not slightly hysterically. “For once, I think you might be right.”

“That’s the spirit,” Billie says sarcastically. “Now go take your bath. Your face is all splotchy.”

“You’re such a flatterer,” Deirdre deadpans, but she does go to take her bath, and it does do loads to make her feel better.

Yet she doesn’t feel completely at peace until late in the evening, when the two of them are huddled underneath the thick covers of the hotel room’s four-poster bed, and Billie whispers in the dark: “For what it’s worth, I think that girl was an idiot.”

To Deirdre, it’s worth more than she’ll ever tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons in this chapter:
> 
> 1) Unlike Billie, Deirdre isn't bisexual, but pure, 100% lesbian.  
> 2) Obviously Lovers' Day is the Empire's version of our Valentine's Day. I like to think there are more holidays that correspond with ours. Holgermas, anyone?


	8. these city lights are too much for you alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre find home.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**14 th Month of Hearths – 26th Month of Clans, 1827**  
**Billie**

Deirdre has found a job.

She sells flowers in a little shop tucked away behind the distillery, replacing the owner’s wife, who’s only a few weeks away from giving birth. She’s there every day, wearing an old green apron that brings out the red of her hair, smiling politely at customers and arranging beautiful bouquets. It’s as if she belongs there.

Billie hates it.

The money Deirdre brings in is enough to pay for regular meals and even the rent of a single-bedroom apartment in a decent building not far off the shore. Billie has food, a place to sleep, heck, a place to call home. She has more than she’s ever had in her life. And she _hates_ it.

It’s stupid, and selfish, and she knows that, but she can’t stand the fact that Deirdre is providing for both of them, that Billie isn’t pulling her own weight. Most of all, she loathes how much time she has on her hands, time she has to spend alone, without Deirdre. She’s come to love the companionship, the closeness, _Deirdre_ , and she misses it more than she’ll ever admit.

She tries to find a job herself, for a while. But no proper business wants to hire a stick of a girl with a permanent scowl on her face, unfit to do manual labour or deal with customers. She’s too young to work at a tavern, too old to be a crier. And the handful of jobs she could do, jobs that require precision and care, those are all filled by Gristolians who make it very clear to her they wouldn’t hire a soot if she was the last person on earth.

“I don’t get myself,” she confesses to Griff one afternoon as they play Nancy. “Everything’s great, but I feel terrible. Ugh, I sound like such a child.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, little miss Lurk,” he replies, shuffling the cards, “but you are a child.”

It’s true, of course. Freshly thirteen, still some years away from being an adult. She never told Deirdre her birthday, and the occasion came and went without a word. “Still. I don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

Griff deals the cards. “Emotions aren’t always rational. Just because you feel you should be happy doesn’t mean you automatically are.”

“Yes, thank you, that helps so much,” Billie mutters nastily, picking up her cards. “Any other pearls of wisdom? Like ‘don’t piss off Slackjaw’?”

She can see his eyebrows raise, even if his eyes stay focused on his cards. “Apparently, you do have to be a bitch about it.”

He says it airily, without malice, and Billie chuckles. “Point.”

“Luckily for you, I always have more pearls of wisdom.” He plays the Regret card, foiling Billie’s trick, and he grins wickedly. “For example, stop playing so badly or you’ll lose.”

“Har har,” she says sardonically, scanning her rubbish hand for a decent card to play. “Anything else? Something useful, maybe?”

Griff’s grin softens into a compassionate smile. “If you don’t like it, change it,” he says. “Tell her you miss her.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Fine, then get a job.”

Billie lets out a bark of mirthless laughter. “You think I haven’t tried? Every asshole around here would rather kick the bucket than deal with someone like me.”

“Not everyone,” he retorts sharply, slamming his next card down on the pile with more force than necessary.

“No,” Billie agrees with a smile. “Congratulations, you’re not an asshole. Now if only you had work for me.”

Griff snorts. “What, to help manage the afternoon rush?” he asks sarcastically, waving around the pointedly empty street. “I suppose we could start playing Nancy for coin, but I doubt you’d come out much richer.”

He plays his last card. “Case in point,” he says triumphantly. “Skinny Nancy.”

“Dammit.”

“Another round?”

Billie shrugs. “Sure. It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.”

Griff collects the cards, handing them to her to shuffle. “There is,” he says pensively, tapping his chin, “something else you could do to make money.”

If looks could kill, he’d have been a pile of ash. “No.”

Completely unperturbed by her glare, Griff waves her off. “Not that, little miss. Don’t insult me.”

Billie mumbles an apology, and she begins to shuffle the cards, clumsily. She hasn’t had much practice yet. “Then what?”

“There are contracts,” he says, hesitantly. “Things people need done that aren’t exactly… approved by the law.”

Her eyes widen, and she leans in subconsciously. “Like what? Murder?”

“No,” he says hastily, holding up his hands, “nothing that serious. People tend to go to Slackjaw with those matters. Or the Knife, if they’ve got the coin.”

She’s stopped shuffling, so he plucks the cards from her hands and does it himself, with practiced ease. “They’re the sort of jobs Slackjaw’s boys don’t handle well. Gathering information, spying, the occasional subtle break-in.”

He deals, but she doesn’t pick up her cards. “Where do I find them?”

Griff frowns, focusing his attention on laying down cards to form the Nancy. “Are you sure you want to get involved with this?”

“You’re the one who brought it up!”

His smile is rueful, but he offers the information without any more prompting. “Most leave whatever odd jobs they have at the local black market.”

Billie stares at him for a good few seconds before it dawns on her. “You’re the local black market!”

“Yes, please, shout it a little louder. I don’t think the Duke of Serkonos quite heard you.”

She lowers her voice, but it loses none of its venom. “You’ve had contracts – paying contracts! – all this time and you never told me?!”

“Yes.”

He says it calmly, and that just pisses her off more. “Why?” she hisses furiously.

Griff sighs heavily. “I’ve given contracts like this to people like you before. People who were starving, desperate for money. It’s never ended well,” he admits, fiddling with a card. “Work like this can make you a great living, but it requires focus you just don’t have when your stomach is growling.”

“I’m not starving,” Billie bites out, thinking of the sizeable breakfast she ate that morning – alone, Deirdre having already gone to work.

“Anymore,” Griff says pointedly. “And that’s why I’m telling you now.”

Billie deflates. “So can I have a look?”

Realising they won’t start a new game of Nancy before her curiosity is satiated, he gets to his feet with a groan and fishes a small stack of papers from his trunk. “Here.”

She takes them, looks at the first paper, and scowls. “Never mind.”

Griff doesn’t take the stack when she tries to hand it back to him. “‘Never mind’?” he repeats, baffled. “After all that?”

Billie drops the papers, the impact sending some of the cards flying. She doesn’t say a word.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out the issue. “You can’t read.”

She crosses her arms and purses her lips, but the embarrassed blush that dusts her cheeks is all the confirmation he needs. So he grabs the stack of contracts and takes his glasses from his pocket. “This one,” he begins slowly, reading through the assignment as quickly as he can, “calls for a pickpocket. Fifty coins to get a key.”

Billie stares at him, her mouth slightly agape. “I suck at pickpocketing,” she says eventually, slowly uncrossing her arms. “That’s Deirdre’s territory.”

He hums in acknowledgement, and discards the unwanted contract. The next one has him clucking his tongue in distaste. “A ‘pleasant’ distraction,” he reads acidly. He discards that paper too, even before she can say ‘no’.

Griff reads out the subjects of all his available contracts to her, and Billie settles on one that requires her to find proof, or lack thereof, of a woman’s infidelity. It’ll keep her occupied for a few days, most likely, and the pay is a whopping hundred and fifty coins.

They spend quite a while drilling the finer details of the assignment into Billie’s mind, since she can’t exactly trudge back to Griff so he can read her the things she forgot, especially not on a stalking mission.

Eventually, she’s quite certain she’ll never forget the woman’s name for as long as she lives, and she gets up. “I should get started.”

“What, now?” he asks incredulously. “What about our game?”

Billie gathers the cards for him. “We’ll say you won,” she says with a grin. “Doubt it’d be far from the truth anyway.”

“Fine,” Griff grumbles, snatching his deck back from her. “Get. Go do your name honour, miss Lurk.”

Billie bows elaborately, and she’s off like the wind.

She’s only just turned the corner when he bellows after her: “And be fucking careful!”

* * *

After her conversation with Griff, the months go by very quickly for Billie. Deirdre is still working at the flower shop at least six days a week, often coming home exhausted, though never without a smile. Billie takes up regular contracts with Griff, whenever he has them available, to keep her busy and to bring in some extra money for expenses. She tells Deirdre she’s doing some work for Griff, though she doesn’t specify what. It isn’t exactly a lie.

It’s an alright arrangement, even if Billie still longs for the days they spent sleeping on rooftops and pickpocketing pittances from strangers. But she has a roof over her head, a full belly every day, and activities to kill her boredom. She really cannot complain.

Until she comes home late one night, blood on her clothes, and Deirdre screams at the sight of her.

“Void, Billie,” she gasps, rushing over immediately to check for any injuries. “What happened?”

Billie is tired, and just incredibly _not_ in the mood. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

“But the blood – ”

“It’s not mine.”

“Oh, thank the Outsider,” she sighs, shoulders sagging in relief. It lasts for all but a second. “But… wait, then whose blood is it?”

Billie shrugs her off, quite ready to get out of her filthy clothes and into bed. “No one’s.”

Deirdre frowns. “Blood doesn’t spout from nowhere, Billie,” she says sternly, sidestepping her and blocking her path. “What did you do?”

“Killed a wolfhound.”

“You _what_? Why?”

“It was in my way,” Billie says pointedly, trying again to get around Deirdre. This time, she lets her.

If she was any less exhausted, she might have felt guilty.

“Is this what Griff has you do?” Deirdre asks from behind her, her voice small.

“No,” Billie says sharply, because none of this is Griff’s fault. “I was careless. It won’t happen again.”

“Careless with what?” Deirdre asks, sounding more desperate with every syllable. “Billie, please, talk to me.”

She lays a hand on Billie’s arm, but Billie pulls away immediately, rounding on Deirdre with fury in her eyes. “Oh, so now you care what I do? Only after I spilled blood?”

She bites out the words, and Deirdre takes a clumsy step back, clutching her hands to her chest. “Billie, I – ”

“I’ve been doing this for months,” Billie hisses, the words spilling out of her so easily now that she’s started. “I’ve been stealing, and stalking, and trespassing. Anything to pass the time while you waste your life working for that idiot who pays you less than he would a fucking hagfish because you’re Morleyan.”

She doesn’t think she’s ever ranted this much in her life, but she cannot stop. “I was breaking into a house tonight, and there was a wolfhound I didn’t expect, so yeah, I killed it. Cried about it too. Does that make you feel better, to know I’m not so heartless to slaughter something without spilling tears? Of course it was probably the shock, but at least you can tell yourself – ”

Her breath hitches when she feels warm hands grab her own, stopping their rapid movements. She hadn’t even realised she was waving them about. Deirdre’s mannerisms rubbed off on her.

Her anger ebbs away at the realisation, and suddenly she can’t stand to look at Deirdre, with her tear-filled eyes and closed-up throat, speechless for perhaps the first time in her life. Billie lets their hands drop, shakes her head, and walks away.

Deirdre doesn’t try to stop her.

And even though that’s exactly what she wants, it also hurts.

Billie crosses the small bedroom she shares with Deirdre and heads for the bathroom, the one room in the apartment with a lock. She hadn’t wanted to do anything but sleep when she first came home, but a bath doesn’t seem like a bad idea either. Perhaps the hot water will help relax her. At the very least, staying here to bathe will ensure Deirdre’s asleep by the time she’s done.

So she draws her bath, scrubs herself clean of blood and grime, and then just sits in the water until it turns cold.

It must have been at least an hour, Billie muses as she wraps herself in a towel. Surely Deirdre is sleeping by now.

Surely. But she’s not, Billie learns when she steps out of the bathroom, finding Deirdre sitting on the edge of their bed, anxiously wringing her hands together. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks splotchy. Billie knows that’s her fault, that she’s the one responsible for Deirdre's tears, and that drops a weight on her chest that makes it hard to breathe.

“You should be asleep,” she says hoarsely.

Deirdre starts at the sound of her voice, but she’s quick to give Billie a tired smile. “So should you.”

Billie nods, feeling the exhaustion in her bones. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” she offers, even if the lumpy piece of furniture that came with the apartment can hardly be called a couch anymore. “‘Night.”

She takes a step towards the door, but of course, _of course_ , Deirdre won’t let her go just like that. “Billie, wait. Please.”

“It’s late, Deirdre,” Billie sighs. “Can’t we talk in the morning?”

“No. We’re talking now.”

Her tone is harsh, quite unlike her normal demeanour, and it books no room for argument. Billie raises an eyebrow at her.

“I just…” Deirdre begins, swallowing away the lump in her throat, “I just don’t want you to go to sleep while you’re angry with me.”

That isn’t what Billie expected. Deirdre seems to have a habit of doing things Billie doesn’t expect. “I’m not angry with you.”

Deirdre chuckles, but it’s mirthless. It sounds wrong. “Yeah, you made that very clear just now.”

Touché. She resigns herself to it, and sits next to Deirdre on the bed. “I’m not angry with you,” she repeats, and it’s true. She isn’t. She never was. “I’m angry with myself.”

“Why?”

Forcing herself to tell Deirdre her feelings is equivalent to pulling out her own teeth, but she does it. “Because I hate this,” she says quietly, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. “Not the apartment, just what you have to do to keep it. You’re gone every day, and… and I miss you.”

Billie shrugs, as if this isn’t a big deal, even though it really is. “I’d rather be back out on the streets.”

There’s a few seconds of tense, endless silence, and Billie’s just on the verge of freaking out because _what if this confession has made Deirdre hate her and oh Void what is she going to do_ – when Deirdre begins to laugh.

It’s not subtle, either. She’s doubled over, clutching her stomach, tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks as she guffaws uncontrollably. Billie sits stiffly, her hands clutching her knees. Here it is, Deirdre is laughing at her and her stupid emotions. She should have fucking known.

Deirdre gasps for breath, cradling her head in her hands. “Void, I am such an idiot.”

“No arguments here,” Billie snaps back immediately. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more self-conscious in her life.

“Billie,” Deirdre says her name gently, imploring her to look at her. Billie does, and Deirdre smiles at her genuinely, if not a bit sad. “I’m so sorry. I thought you wanted this, to have a home. I never even thought to ask your opinion.”

“You got that job… for me?”

“Yes.”

Billie could smack herself for being such an ungrateful brat. “I did want a home,” she admits, because she knows only the truth will help at this moment. “I still do. But… this place isn’t home. It’s great, and warm, but it isn’t home.”

She looks Deirdre in the eye, and chokes out the next words. “You are home.”

And then Deirdre is hugging her, and someone cries, or maybe they both do. When they pull apart, Billie can see the beginning of the sunrise through the window.

Deirdre keeps her hands on Billie’s shoulders. “Are we okay?”

Billie folds her hands over Deirdre’s. “We’re okay.”

Deirdre’s smile is brilliant, and she gives Billie’s shoulders a last affectionate squeeze before she gets up. “You should get some rest.”

She doesn’t need to tell Billie twice. “What about you?”

Deirdre gestures to the first rays of sunshine. “The shop will open soon. I should be there early. To tell Laurant I’m quitting. And I have to inform our landlord we’ll be leaving by the end of next month.”

“Really?” Billie asks, suddenly uncertain. “You don’t have to do that just because I had a temper tantrum.”

“You’re my home too, Billie,” Deirdre says, sincerely, and Billie can’t help but feel slightly envious at the ease with which she speaks those words. “Besides, it seems like you could use some backup with your contracts, if what happened tonight is any indication.”

Billie throws a pillow at her, which Deirdre dodges easily. She blows Billie a kiss before she leaves.

Billie buries her face in her pillow and pretends she’s not blushing.

Despite her exhaustion, she doesn’t fall asleep until an hour later, when Deirdre slides underneath the covers next to her, and everything is as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always listen to Griff, because Griff is right 100% of the time. Communication is important, kids.


	9. 'cause this isn't all we could be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre learn new things.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**3 rd Month of Earth – 22nd Month of Nets, 1828**  
**Deirdre**

Three days into the new year of 1827, Deirdre is forced to seriously reconsider the idea of moving to Serkonos.

Not because she hates the cold months like Billie does, or because she thinks they’ll find better fortune there, but because she’s now certain there’s nothing better in this world than the taste of fine Serkonan cuisine.

She nibbles on her honey cake as she walks, the last of the dozen Billie bought her for her birthday, trying to make it last as long as she can. Even after three days, the treat is moist from the honey, and the taste of sweet cake mixed with spices is absolutely delectable. Unlike her native Morleyan kitchen, which mostly consists of hearty, filling food, Serkonan dishes have a nuance to them Deirdre absolutely adores.

Billie said she didn’t care for the cakes after trying only a small bite, though Deirdre suspects she lied to keep Deirdre from oversharing her birthday present. Normally, Deirdre would have argued more, but then the things are damn delicious and maybe she deserves to be selfish every once in a while.

Besides, it’s not as if she won’t repay the favour.

During Fugue, while they were drunk on three sips of whiskey, Billie revealed her birthday was somewhere in the Month of Hearths (she told the exact date, but Deirdre can’t quite remember that). Deirdre was mortified. Her birthday was _months ago_ , and Deirdre never knew, never even thought to ask. She never got Billie a gift.

So today, she’ll rectify that.

She sent Billie out alone that morning, claiming to feel under the weather and expressing a desire to sleep in. Ever since she quit her job they’ve been working contracts together, after Billie promised her she wouldn’t ever take another break-in job. Deirdre doesn’t much like the idea of Billie being out on her own, but their current contract of tailing someone in broad daylight isn’t all that risky, and Billie can take care of herself. Besides, she can’t exactly buy Billie’s present with Billie right there.

Deirdre turns onto Bloodox Way, inclining her hat at a Bottle Street member staggering her way. The first time she saw one of Slackjaw’s men she was terrified, but she quickly learned that the Bottle Street Gang isn’t much of a threat, at least not to her and Billie. Slackjaw is honest, for an underground crime lord, and he won’t poke you unless you poke him first. Deirdre learned quickly that politeness goes a long way with his gang.

The person she’s looking for is in his usual spot, sitting on the low wall that separates the upper and lower street. He’s reading, a pair of glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose and an old pipe clenched between his teeth.

Deirdre climbs up the short flight of stairs. “Good morning, mister Griff.”

Griff puffs out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke and takes the pipe from his mouth. “Miss Deirdre,” he greets, putting down his book. He takes off his glasses and glances behind her, raising an eyebrow when all he sees is an empty street. “Are you alone today?”

Deirdre nods, feeling suddenly, stupidly nervous. She’s never gone to Griff on her own before, and he’s a lot more intimidating without Billie here to fling a good-natured insult at him. “Billie’s working on that contract you gave us Wednesday.”

“By herself?” he asks, sharply.

She flinches. “Yeah. I told her I wasn’t feeling well.”

Griff puffs on his pipe, and tuts. “Good relationships aren’t built on lies, miss Deirdre.”

“I know,” Deirdre says quickly, feeling guilty under Griff’s accusatory glare. “I don’t make a habit of it, I promise. I just needed some time apart so I could pick out a present for her.”

Griff’s demeanour changes instantly. “Oh, you should have said so! I’ve got some great things I happen to know for a fact she’ll love.”

He shows her his inventory, pointing out a few items Billie explicitly praised. It would’ve been helpful, if Billie hadn’t chosen to gush over a wickedly curved knife, a flask whose cap was carved to resemble a skull, and a ukulele she didn’t know how to play, nor had the patience to learn.

“What about this?” Deirdre asks, picking up a book from amidst the wide assortment of ill-gotten goods. Its title reads _Whispers from the Void_ , by Barloni Mulani. “Billie’s always been interested in the Void.”

Griff’s smile is obviously forced. “I don’t think that’s quite it.”

Deirdre strokes a hand across the cracked spine. “It’s not?” she asks, hesitantly. To be fair, she’s never actually seen Billie read a book, but then Billie’s never had a book on the Void before either. “I think she’d like it. How much is it?”

He sighs, running a hand through his greying hair. “She never told you, did she?”

“Told me what?”

His expression is pained, as if he cannot believe he got stuck in this situation. “You did not hear this from me,” Griff says, quick to cover his ass as always. “Billie can’t read.”

Deirdre nearly drops the book. Of course. _Of course_ Billie can’t read. She told Deirdre she’d never gone to school, or had a tutor. She always let Deirdre handle any writing, claiming her handwriting was terrible. And Deirdre has never seen her read a book, or even a pamphlet, in the year they’ve known each other.

She can’t believe she’s never figured it out before, and she has difficulty swallowing away the lump her shame has formed. “So maybe not this, then.”

Her voice comes out more than a little choked, and Deirdre busies herself with looking through some of Griff’s other items to avoid the look of pity in his eyes.

He leaves her be, thankfully, and Deirdre focuses all her attention on sifting through the plethora of items in Griff’s inventory, determined to find Billie a proper gift despite her ignorance. She ought to be able to find something suitable that isn’t a murder weapon, at least.

And then she unearths another book, this one called simply _Timeless Children’s Rhymes_ , and an idea shapes itself in her mind.

“Griff,” she calls, holding up her new find, “how much for this one?”

* * *

“But he swam around, up and down, drinking from the river, crying ‘why me?’”

Billie closes the book with a self-satisfied grin on her face. “Not even a stutter.”

“Brilliant,” Deirdre affirms, smiling proudly.

Billie basks in the praise, carefully tucking away the book in her knapsack. “You got any other books?”

Deirdre laughs. “This coming from the girl who didn’t even want to learn how to read at first? Shocking.”

That gets her a shove, though a small one, considering their position sitting on the edge of the antiquary’s roof, their legs dangling over the edge. “Yes, I was incredibly, horribly wrong and I humbly offer my sincerest apologies,” Billie says, eerily accurately mimicking the posh accent of a nobleman they often see on his way to the Golden Cat. “Now come on. More books.”

“I have just one,” Deirdre says, her smile slowly fading. “It’s about Black Sally.”

“The gang leader?” Billie asks, eyes sparkling excitedly.

“No, the courtesan.”

“There’s a courtesan called Black Sally?”

“No.”

“Damn you,” Billie says dramatically, giving Deirdre another shove. “Just give me the damn book.”

Deirdre obliges, taking the worn, well-read book from her pack and handing it to Billie. “Just… be careful with it, please. It’s dear to me.”

Billie takes the book as if it’s made of glass. “What’s so special about it?”

“It was my brother’s favourite book,” Deirdre reveals, smiling fondly at the memory. “Ardan wanted me to read this to him all the time when he was little. He was starting to learn to read it for himself, but… well.”

“Are you sure I can borrow it?” Billie asks, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I don’t want to end up destroying one of your most prized possessions.”

Her concern is touching. “I’m sure. I can dream the damn story word for word, and it’s really just gathering dust in my knapsack. Better someone can still enjoy it,” Deirdre says encouragingly.

Billie can accept that, it seems, because she brings the book closer so she can read the title. “The erah- erad- what the fuck is this word?”

“Eradication.”

“Eradication,” Billie repeats slowly, tracing the letters with her fingers. “Which brings me to my earlier question: what the fuck is this word?”

“It means destruction,” Deirdre explains, remembering clearly her little brother asking the exact same question when he first read it, “but to an extreme, until no trace of it is left.”

Billie’s brow furrows. “So this is a book about the destruction of Black Sally?” she asks, sounding clearly disappointed. “I thought it would be about her victories.”

Deirdre can’t help but laugh. Of course that’s what Billie was hoping for. “It is, for the most part. Except she doesn’t win in the end.”

“Hey, don’t give away the ending!”

“You asked!” Deirdre protests. “Besides, the title gives away the ending well enough on its own.”

“Yeah, and I wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t told me what ‘eradication’ means.”

“You asked!”

“If I asked you to jump off Kaldwin’s Bridge, would you do that?” Billie asks teasingly.

“Well, no. But if you wanted to jump off it yourself and asked for pointers, I’d give you advice on how to stick the landing.”

That earns her a third shove, this one quite firm, and Deirdre has to fight to keep her balance. But then the antiquary’s owners still haven’t gotten rid of the mattress in the alleyway below, and though it isn’t quite Kaldwin’s Bridge, it is pretty damn high. And Deirdre never could resist a good prank.

She stops fighting the pull of gravity, and cannot suppress the shriek of delight as she plummets down, landing heavily on the soft mattress below.

Deirdre huffs out a breath, laughter bubbling up in her chest. “Did I stick the landing?” she yells up to the roof, but she can’t see Billie sitting on the edge anymore.

“Deirdre!” she hears Billie scream her name, voice unnaturally high and filled with panic. Deirdre whips her head around to see Billie running towards her from the mouth of the alley, her expression one of utter terror, and she feels the smile slide off her face.

She gets to her feet to meet Billie. “It’s okay, I’m fi-,” she begins to say, but then Billie crashes into her and forcefully wraps her arms around Deirdre’s neck, holding on so tightly it’s hard to breathe.

“Voiddammit Deirdre,” she breathes, and Deirdre can feel her trembling, can feel wetness soak through the fabric of her shirt. “Don’t you _dare_ do that again.”

She doesn’t think Billie has ever cried in her presence before, has never seen her be anything but strong. The fact that she’s breaking now – and that Deirdre caused it, with her stupid notion of comedy – is enough to make her throat close up, and she just clutches Billie close, assuring her silently but surely that she is very much still here.

They stay together like that for a long time, just finding comfort in the closeness. Then Billie pulls back slightly, just enough so she can look at Deirdre. “What were you thinking?” she demands hoarsely, eyes still shimmering with tears. “You could have broken your damn neck!”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“You damn well better be,” Billie says firmly, shaking her head. “If you’d died – if I had _killed_ you –”

“Hush,” Deirdre implores, reaching up to wipe away a stray tear from Billie’s cheek. “I’m fine. We’re fine. I’m so sorry I made you think otherwise for even a second.”

“Just… don’t do it again,” Billie bites out, though the words are softened by the way she leans into Deirdre’s touch. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

The raw affection in her voice, for once unguarded and unrestrained, makes Deirdre’s heart race, blood rushing to her cheeks. She’s always thought Billie beautiful, with her flawless brown skin, her dark, inquisitive eyes, her full lips that make her entire face light up when they curve into a smile.

Deirdre’s finding it hard to look away from Billie’s lips at the moment.

“Billie,” she murmurs softly, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

She says it to make sure Billie knows what she intends to do, to give her a chance to refuse if the affection is unwanted, but Billie is silent, and Deirdre closes the distance between them, gently pressing their lips together.

It’s Deirdre’s first real kiss, and she’s very aware of the fact, wondering if what she’s doing is right, if she ought to move her lips more, if she ought to open her mouth, even – but then Billie sighs against her lips, a sound of utter contentment, and Deirdre allows herself to relax, to fully appreciate the feeling of Billie’s soft, warm lips on her own. She still has her hand on Billie’s cheek, lazily caressing her jaw with her thumb. Billie’s hand slides into her hair, cupping the back of her head and drawing her ever closer, while her other hand finds Deirdre’s and their fingers lace together tightly.

When they part, Deirdre cannot do anything but laugh giddily. “I should pretend to almost die more often.”

“If you do, I’ll kill you myself.”

The threat is nullified by the soft smile on her face. “There are worse ways to go.”

“Shut up,” Billie mumbles, and kisses her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAS.
> 
> The scene where Deirdre decides to casually fall off a building because of course that's hilarious is courtesy of [jazzykat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzykat/pseuds/jazzykat), who suggested it while I was still writing Bleeding Drop of Red and this fic was just a seed somewhere in the back of my mind. Thank you jazzy, I hope you like what I did with it! <3


	10. one more day, just one more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie and Deirdre run out of luck.

**Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**17 th Month of Darkness, 1828**  
**Billie**

Billie has never liked being touched.

Being touched always meant being hurt, a slap from her mother or the neighbour kids pulling on her hair. Even after she left home, and she was free of her mother and her old neighbourhood, she still tensed at contact she didn’t initiate herself, even if it was just a hand on her shoulder or a pat on the back.

Then Deirdre kissed her, and everything changed.

Billie watches long fingers trace a random pattern over her forearm, a light touch that does little more than connect them together, serves as a reassurance of their combined presence. She closes her eyes, the feeling of Deirdre’s fingertips across her skin the only thing in the world. Right now, nothing else matters.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been more at peace.

“Billie,” Deirdre’s soft voice wakes her sometime later. “We should go.”

The sun is setting, the temperature already dropping, and Billie knows that Deirdre is right, that they should move. The absurdly brief period of summer in Dunwall has long since passed, and they simply cannot spend their nights outside, no matter how much Billie wishes they could.

“Alright,” she sighs, hauling herself to her feet with no small amount of difficulty, and an even larger amount of reluctance. “Let’s go.”

Deirdre takes Billie’s hand, their fingers lacing together seamlessly, and they leave behind the old half-crumbled bridge they’d been sitting on. Deirdre told her she likes to watch the sun disappear behind the waves, because that’s what she used to do with her father back when her family was still alive and whole, so Billie has made a point of taking her to the bridge at the edge of Clavering Boulevard as often as possible. The grateful smile and tender kiss she gets in return every time are more than worth it.

They join the crowd of people that always occupy the Boulevard at this time, the working men and women of Dunwall making their way back home after a long shift. Billie and Deirdre weave through them effortlessly, experienced with the bustle from their years of living in this part of town. Billie can name at least a dozen people in the crowd, those she’s stalked for coin or information over the years, and a lot more she knows by face if not by name. These streets are home.

Her eyes find a middle-aged man in a lab coat, the white a stark contrast against the drab worker clothes of most others, and she elbows Deirdre gently. “Galvani.”

“On it,” Deirdre says immediately, letting go of Billie’s hand and drawing her baker boy hat down over her eyes. She’s soon lost in the sea of people, and Billie walks on towards Bloodox Way, nicking an unprotected bottle of whiskey from Bottle Street on the way. It’s not the good stuff (which Slackjaw’s boys wouldn’t leave unattended under any circumstances), but it’s alcohol, and that’s more than enough. In the winter of Dunwall, having something to keep you warm is a blessing in and of itself.

Of course, if the past few months have taught her anything, there are… _other ways_ to keep warm. But having some alcohol to loosen up beforehand never hurts.

Griff calls out to her as she walks past his shop. “You’re smiling!”

“Am not!” she shouts back, smiling.

The building they’re currently squatting in is just down the street from Griff, the old antique shop run by the shrew that used to chase Billie from the alleyway behind it. Just as Billie predicted, the store has gone, its prices too high for this part of town, and the premises has not been sold to a new owner yet. It’s a good place to live, for as long as they can, and Billie can’t help but feel a shred of vindictive pleasure every time she crosses the threshold. She always knew she’d outlast that harpy.

Billie kicks off her shoes and opens the bottle of whiskey with her teeth, taking a hearty swig as she walks up the stairs to the apartment. It’s been a long time since she’s been quite this content with her life – she’d even go as far as saying she’s _happy_ , even if the word feels like a jinx. Say you’re happy, and the Outsider will take it as a personal slight, the old tales say.

But Billie isn’t scared of the Outsider. She _is_ happy. As long as she has Deirdre, she’ll always be happy.

It’s only minutes before she hears the door downstairs creak in its old hinges, and soon Deirdre appears in the doorway with her cheeks flushed a pretty crimson from the cold outside. “You won’t believe what I found.”

Billie pads over to her. “What?”

Deirdre takes off her hat and uncoils her hair from the braid it was in, producing from within a curious artefact that looks like a badly carved rat. “Galvani had it on him,” Deirdre says as she hands Billie the object. “It’s not pretty, but it… it _sings_ , somehow.”

The second Billie’s fingers brush the wood, she understands what Deirdre means. It feels powerful in her palm, and it’s as if the air whispers to her, though she cannot make out the words. “Wow,” she mumbles, impressed. “I think I may have had a bit too much already.”

Deirdre laughs, grabbing the bottle of whiskey. “Well, I haven’t had any,” she says, taking a sip to prove her point false, “and I feel it too.”

“What do you want to do with it?” Billie asks.

Deirdre smiles. “I want you to keep it,” she says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it… reminds me of you, somehow. I feel as though you were always meant to have it.”

Billie looks down at the talisman, running her fingers over the rat’s tiny paws. It’s an ugly thing, and perhaps she should be offended that it reminds Deirdre of her, but it also feels powerful, and soothing. Keeping it close feels natural. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I’ll treasure it.”

Deirdre kisses her.

* * *

 **Dunwall, Distillery District**  
**8 th Month of Timber, 1828**  
**Deirdre**

“Where the hell is everyone?”

Griff chuckles at Billie’s bewilderment. “The Duke of Serkonos is visiting Dunwall, miss Lurk. Everyone who’s anyone has gone off to the Palace District, either to pay tribute or to try and steal something. Foreign wears sell well on the Black Market.”

“Mr. Griff, aren’t you the Black Market?” Deirdre asks.

Griff flashes her a mischievous smile. “I may or may not have some lovely Serkonan items for sale soon, yes.”

“If those include Serkonan honey cakes, you’ll make a fortune off of me,” Deirdre chuckles. She lays down her last card and grins. “I win!”

Griff scowls, though Deirdre has known him long enough to be able to tell that he’s not actually upset. “Drat,” he sighs, raking in the cards again. “You’re good, miss Deirdre. Or maybe I just haven’t played anyone decent in a while.”

He looks pointedly at Billie when he says it, and she flicks a card at his face. “I’m only letting you win,” she says haughtily. “Your prices are worse when you’re grumpy.”

“Is that so?” Griff frowns, but the curl of his lips gives away his amusement. “Good thing you’re such a ray of sunshine, then.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Griff pockets his cards and gets to his feet. “Well ladies, it’s been a pleasure, as always,” he says with a short bow, “but I must be getting to Kaldwin’s Bridge, or dear old Jerome will snatch all the good merchandise.”

He disappears into a small alleyway, leaving Deirdre and Billie alone. Deirdre takes the opportunity to press a quick kiss to Billie’s lips. Billie smiles and holds her close. “You want to head to the bridge?”

“You don’t mind?” Deirdre asks. They haven’t watched the sunset on the old bridge for a while now, because it’s been freezing cold. Only recently has the relentless onslaught of winter let up a bit. “It’s not exactly warm.”

“Deirdre, this is _Dunwall_ ,” Billie says dryly. “It’s never warm.”

“That’s true,” Deirdre laughs. She takes Billie’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “Alright, let’s go.”

Hand in hand, they head from Bloodox Way into the direction of John Clavering Boulevard. The streets are depressingly empty, the visit from the Duke of Serkonos not only drawing the high and mighty and the criminals, but forcing the working class to do overtime as well. Even the ever-present lights of Doctor Galvani’s offices are absent.

And it’s why there are hardly any people around to see the magnificent carriage that’s slowly making its way down the street.

“Oh,” Deirdre breathes, squeezing Billie’s hand. “Billie, I think those are gazelles!”

The carriage is being pulled by magnificent creatures she’s only ever seen pictures of in books, with golden brown fur and beautiful curved horns. They’re covered with heavy blankets, the climate of Dunwall not suited for the native fauna of Serkonos. It’s a marvellous sight.

The coach slows to a stop only a few feet from them. “Nobles heading to the Golden Cat, probably,” Billie mutters, pulling at Deirdre’s hand. “C’mon, we should go.”

“No, wait,” Deirdre says, untangling her hand from Billie’s. “I want to see the gazelles.”

She walks up to one of the tall, lean beasts, extending a shaking hand to pet its fur. “Hey, little guy,” she says gently, marvelling at the softness of its pelt. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”

It snorts a breath as if answering her, and she giggles in delight. It’s been a long time since she’s indulged in something silly, since she’s allowed herself to be young. Her little brother would have loved this.

Two men step out of the carriage, and Billie is at her side, grabbing her hand again. “Deirdre, please, let’s go.”

There’s a note of discomfort in her tone, and that Deirdre does not want to be responsible for. “Alright, we’ll go.”

She steps away from the gazelle – and right into the path of a sour-faced, well-dressed Serkonan nobleman. “Watch where you’re stepping, _puta_.”

Deirdre recoils. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says, lowering her eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it does not.”

She nods hastily and darts backwards, away from the man and his fancy coach and his pretty gazelles. Somewhere along the way, she lost Billie’s hand.

“Now, wait just a moment,” a second nobleman drawls, coming up behind the first. He’s shorter than the other, but their faces are so similar there can be no doubt they’re related. “Radanis, you’re really going to let such an insult slide? You are the future Duke of Serkonos, you shouldn’t have to stand for this. Especially not from these _wharf roaches_.”

The words are spoken so coldly, as if she and Billie are nothing more than a speck of dirt on his immaculate shoes, and Deirdre feels terror grip her heart, a terror she hasn’t felt since that first Fugue Feast she spent out on the streets, helpless and alone. It’s unmistakably the fear of death.

She tries to back up further, but she bumps against a man in an unfamiliar uniform, the light blue of the Serkonan Royal Guard. “I’m sorry,” she says again, her voice rising in pitch as tears blur her vision. “Please, I’m so sorry.”

The shorter nobleman mutters something else to his kin and hands him a walking stick, a beautifully carved thing with a solid silver ornament on top.

There’s no warning. Radanis Abele swings the stick at her head.

She can _hear_ her skull crack.

Deirdre keels over, not even feeling the impact of the harsh cobblestones on her body, the searing pain in her head all-consuming. She can do nothing but watch as Billie lunges at Radanis, tears of fury on her face. She snaps an ornament from the carriage and drives it into his eye, as deep as it will go.

It’s the last thing Deirdre sees.

 _I’m sorry, Billie_ , she thinks as her vision fades away. _I’m so, so sorry._

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm so sorry this took forever - I think I've rewritten this chapter at least five times, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but c'est ça. Also I got sucked into Fallout 4 for like three months and I really have no excuse for that.
> 
> This is the last full chapter; there's also an epilogue I'll be posting along with this. If you've made it this far, thank you very much for reading. It's been a ride <3


	11. I just lost my mind but I still got you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Billie meets her match.

**Dunwall, Legal District**  
**27 th Month of Harvest, 1829**  
**Billie**

The first months after her Deirdre died, Billie felt nothing but rage.

She’d taken care of the dandy who struck the blow, served justice for the girl she loved above all else, whom she’s certain she’ll continue to love until the end of her days. The image of her lying in the mud, those beautiful green eyes empty and void, will haunt her forever.

But others didn’t see it as justice. Billie quickly learned that the bastard who’d killed her Deirdre was Radanis Abele, son and heir to the Duke of Serkonos. A big fish. Big enough to warrant weekly sweeps of the city. Big enough for the toughest, meanest gangs in Dunwall to turn her away. Big enough for even Griff to wash his hands of her.

For months, Billie was afraid to sleep. She sought out the most desolate, undesirable places to rest, clutching close the pistol Griff gave her as a parting gift, his eyes sorrowful even though he abandoned her to this fate. She’s had to shoot more people than she can count, filthy traitors who wished to put a bag over her head and turn her in for the reward money. She has no friends left in Dunwall.

But rage is all-consuming, and it burns up quickly. Now, Billie just feels empty, dead inside. Her hate for the world is not an inferno, but a smoking ruin, threatening to choke her if she lets it. She finds herself wishing someone will come to slit her throat while she sleeps. Maybe the Outsider will allow her to see her Deirdre again, just one last time.

She never told her how much she loves her.

It’s early in the dark morning when Billie emerges from her hiding spot, an old sewer drain out of use. This is the only time she can go out, when the whole city is still asleep. This is her only chance to get food or coin, more often than not from the poor saps who leave the bar to catch a small hour of sleep before the new day begins. All she has to do is find a watering hole and lay in wait.

Today, however, it seems she’s not the only one with that plan.

Just outside of her favourite bar to target are three men, clearly City Watch from the way they prowl the street, even if they are dressed out of uniform. They’re talking loudly about a barrister, who’s apparently responsible for a cut in their pay. They’re out for blood, and for coin.

Billie crouches behind an old dumpster in an alley, already calculating three different escape routes in case it comes to that. Her hand is clutched tightly around her pistol.

She doesn’t see him at first, but in the flicker of an eyelid, a large figure dressed in red is on them, appearing as if from nowhere out of the cold night air. His movements are a blur, a single blade all he needs to take down all three men in the span of seconds, taking their lives with just a single quick motion, a stab in the left side of the throat. Their blood splatters and steams on the cobbles, and then there is nothing but silence.

He doesn’t stay, doesn’t even wait to see if his victims are truly dead, instead leaving them spluttering in the dirt, drowning in their own blood. With a speed that tricks the eye, he’s up on the roof of the pub, surveying the streets below.

He doesn’t seem to have noticed Billie, and part of her, the rational part, wants to remain hidden until he is gone. The three guardsmen he killed carry heavy pouches, enough to feed her for months if she’s smart about it. But this – this seems bigger. The rat charm she keeps close to her heart sings loudly, as if it can feel the power in the air. It’s as if Deirdre wants her to follow.

When the man disappears from sight only to reappear on the roof of an adjacent building, Billie has made her choice.

She clambers up the dumpster she was hiding behind, hauling herself up to a low roof. The man is three buildings away, and he’s so incredibly fast Billie doesn’t know if she’ll be able to keep up. But she knows she has to try.

She runs, choosing speed over stealth, jumping from rooftop to rooftop in a deadly game of cat and mouse, with only the briefest flicker of the man’s red coat in the distance to guide her. She stays high when he takes to the streets, walking into an old, abandoned part of the Estate District, where dilapidated mansions form a small oval. There’s cracks in the street, from the earthquakes that made the place uninhabitable, but the man doesn’t seem concerned for that. Neither do the sentries she can see on the balconies, odd masks obscuring their faces.

This is his territory.

Billie slows down, taking care to hide behind the chimneys as she continues to stealthily follow the man in red. She thought she’d seen everything in the city, knew of all the gangs, but this – this is something else entirely. The air itself is heavy with intrigue.

The man heads into one of the old buildings, and Billie follows, slipping from the roof through a glassless window. The room she finds herself in is all gloom, with rotted carpets and desks full of rat-eaten papers, paintings ruined by the wet. But there are also weapons, and target dummies, as though men live here in secret to train with knives and crossbows.

Too late, she realises she’s lost sight of the man in red, and she silently curses herself. At least he doesn’t know she’s here.

It’s a foolish thought. Billie has only just snuck into the next room, which looks like an old office, its walls lines with sketches of people, some of them crossed out with red ink, when she feels a rush of displaced air just behind her.

She turns to see the man in red standing there, his face marred by a long scar running across his right eye. All Billie can do is stare, frozen to the spot, and wait for his sword to put an end to her misery.

It’s several long, tense seconds before he speaks. “You followed me,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, “found this place, and now you’re not begging or running for your life.”

“There's nowhere to run,” Billie says dully. “And I’m not very attached to it to tell the truth.”

He comes close and looks her right in the eyes, trying to see some light inside that would tell him her story. “You think you’re already dead inside,” he says, hitting far too close to home, “but I’ll give you something to live for. You’ll fight for me and kill people like the ones who’ve hurt you.”

His words take a while to register. When they do, all Billie can do is nod.

She feels relief for the first time in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based heavily on a book found in The Knife of Dunwall entitled [Meeting Daud](http://dishonored.wikia.com/wiki/Meeting_Daud), as written by Billie.
> 
> Also, the title of this fic and all of its chapters come from songs by the band Lydia. The song One More Day especially just screams Billie and Deirdre to me; I highly recommend you give it a listen!


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